


Vox Deorum

by strikedawn



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon Compliant, Game Spoilers, M/M, Oracle Prompto AU, kind of, noctluna and promluna friendships are so important to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 20:16:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15915498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikedawn/pseuds/strikedawn
Summary: Prompto grew up listening to voices in a language he shouldn't have understood, falling asleep to stories about the King of Light and his Oracle, and their destiny to save the world from the darkness.But with time, he learns. He learns that they are not stories, but prophecies. That the voices in his head are the voices of the gods, delivering their messages uncaring of whether Prompto wants to hear them or not.He learns that there isn't a place for him in this world, because this world already has its True Oracle.But if there isn't a place for Prompto on Eos... what is his purpose?--In a world where Prompto has the powers of the Oracle, but is branded as a fake because of them, four boys go out on a road trip to a wedding.





	Vox Deorum

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! My name is Blue, and this is my first FFXV fic, and of course my first promptis one! I'm fairly new to the fandom, but I have to admit I am absolutely in love with these characters and their story. You can tell, just by looking at this monster of a fic... 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the read! Happy reading!
> 
> Fic dedicated to Alex (crazyloststar) because this really wouldn't exist without her.

In the ancient language of the gods, it is impossible to spell “Prompto” without spelling “fake”.

Prompto realizes so at the tender age of five. Adults around him are throwing loud, hurtful words at each other, words that Prompto doesn’t really understand yet, but that he knows have to do with him. The voices rise in volume as the minutes go by, and they’re joined by pointy fingers that dig into Prompto’s shoulders, into the spaces between his ribs, at the back of his neck. He’s overwhelmed by the touching, by the ire behind the familiar voices, to the point that tiny tears gather at the corners of his eyes.

And still, all that shouting is drowned by the rumble of a set of deep voices, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. The voices reverberate through Prompto’s chest as they speak a language that is different than that of the adults in the room with him; but still, Prompto understands.

He concentrates on those voices because, somehow, they’re less scary than the ones that speak his maternal tongue. So Prompto closes his eyes, clutching a borrowed stuffed toy against his chest.

And as his world crumbles around him, he commits to memory the prophecies of the gods.

 

* * *

 

Prompto Argentum is an anomaly in more ways than one.

The barcode on the skin of his wrist is telling enough. No other child Prompto has ever met had one. He makes sure to double check every time he meets someone new — but never allowing others to see _his_ wrist. His adoptive parents give him everything they can think of to help him hide it: from gloves to long sleeves to wristbands. Prompto grows up with the familiar pressure around his right wrist, and learning how to hide the invasive looks he throws at other people’s arms.

There are other things he learns too, as the years go by. He learns that the recurring nightmare of monsters attacking him with sharp words isn’t a nightmare at all, but a _memory,_ one that he pretends not to remember as the sun comes up. He learns, in that way that can only be done through lots of time in silence and introspection, that he never once imagined the voices that whisper to him in a language that he should not be able to understand. The voices are real, and the voices are brutal: unforgiving in their musings, and their prophecies.

They are the voices of the Gods, and they should only be heard by the True Oracle.

Prompto knows there is an oracle, somewhere. A being of light that is able to keep the Starscourge at bay, able to listen, to understand the voices of the gods, but whose main purpose on Eos is to guide the King of Light towards his rightful throne. Prompto knows this, because he’s been told so by the gods themselves. The Oracle shall pave the path the True King will walk upon one day, and together they will bring back the light into the darkness.

And Prompto knows he is not that oracle the prophecies talk about, because a room full of people he once loved drilled it into his brain, until his eardrums bled with the demands of gods and the unfairness of men.

 

* * *

 

_'When darkness veils the world, the King of Light shall come.’_

Prompto is only glad he managed to change Tiny’s bandage to a clean handkerchief before she’s gone in the night, her bed already cold by the time Prompto wakes up.

He thinks of her for the three days it takes for a letter to appear in his mailbox. He thinks of her soft fur and even softer noises as he fed her, the way she would curl up to him while he made his homework, and the way she waited for him while he was away in school. It had been nice, to have someone around. Maybe it wasn’t someone he could converse with, but Tiny had been someone to talk to. The tiny dog had never looked at Prompto as if he was crazy whenever he told her about the deep voices that kept him up at night.

Instead, she would lick his fingers when the voices where loud enough to give him a headache, and whine with him as if she understood.

But then she left, suddenly, and Prompto sat in his empty house once again, alone as the darkness crept closer and the gods promised a King of Light.

That is, until the letter arrived to his mailbox. Smelling of sylleblossoms and in a paper as white as Tiny’s fur, Lady Lunafreya’s letter —her words, really— become more important to him than those grumbled by the gods, more important than the words from the people had scorned him. Prompto reads the letter, again and again, feeling his heart burst in his chest with the sweetness of the True Oracle.

‘ _You are friends with Noctis, aren’t you?’_ Lunafreya —the True Oracle— asks at one point, making Prompto swallow the guilt, the first time he reads it. He feels like an imposter; he is not Prince Noctis’ friend. He only stands on the sidelines, scratching at the skin beneath his wristband, turning the volume of his music up to drown the sound of voices that don’t really reach him through his ears. But as he keeps reading, over and over, a new idea starts to brew in his mind. He is not Prince Noctis’ friend.

But he could be.

 _‘Please,’_ Lunafreya continues almost at the end of the letter, a few lines that Prompto keeps coming back to. _‘Do not let the voices that you might hear to keep you from Noctis’ side. He needs someone he can trust. He needs_ friends _who will remain ever at his side.’_

Prompto wonders if she would be this nice if she knew what he had been called in the past; if she knew that he was nothing but a fake, a shadow of what Lady Lunafreya was destined to be. He thinks she probably _would be._ There is no world in which Lady Lunafreya isn’t a bright star amongst the darkness.

So days later, with deep imprints from his fingers, the letter falls softly onto his bed as Prompto starts pulling on a tracksuit.

 

* * *

 

Noct’s apartment is spacious, and luminous, and probably Prompto’s favorite place in all of Insomnia.

If asked, he would deny it. He would say his favorite place is that camera shop down the street from their school, the one with all the newest models shining on the front for Prompto to gawk at. Or, he would say that it’s the café he goes to with Noct sometimes, where the waitress is super sweet and always gives them free cookies after a specially rough exam.

But when he’s alone, and thinking how great Noct is, and how amazing it is to be allowed to be his friend, Prompto admits to himself that he likes Noct’s apartment more than any other place in the world. Because the scent of Ignis’ cooking always lingers in the air, somehow, even when it’s been a couple of days since he’s last been around. Because Noct has a secret stack of snacks in the back of his cabinet, and half of those snacks are Prompto’s favorites, which always find their way out of said cabinet every time Prompto visits.

Because it feels more homey than his own house ever does these days, and Prompto loves it.

“Choose any game you want,” Noct says as he moves to get up from the floor, just by Prompto’s side. He’s still wearing his school uniform, jacket discarded and tie barely tied around his neck, so it’s very easy for Prompto to reach to the side and poke Noct between his ribs as a smirk curls the corners of his mouth. “Hey! Stop that! I’m going to get changed, you choose a game.”

“Yessir!” Prompto exclaims. He adds a salute with two fingers for good measure once Noct is on his feet, and doesn’t lose his smile when Noct reaches forward to mess Prompto’s blond hair with his hand as he walks past. “Hey! Just for that, I’ll pick the cheesiest game you own!”

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

As Noct finally leaves the room, Prompto crawls on his knees over the carpeted floor to the cabinet under the tv, where Noct keeps all of his video games. It’s a cabinet that not even Ignis has any control over, a mess of empty boxes, runaway discs and game guides all thrown inside of it until they just come tumbling down every time you open the door. Prompto receives the sliding mountain of video games with open arms, though, humming a soft song under his breath as he goes through them all, dead set on finding the one game that will make his friend groan in frustration. Maybe Ignis gifted him a video game once, and it was a fail—? Nah, Ignis is perfect, he doesn’t do fails. There has to be something there, though, probably right at the back…

Prompto is happy as he searches deeper inside, the corners of the games’ boxes digging into his naked ankles. He can’t help but hum a little bit higher, a little bit more excitedly, as he keeps finding games he wants to play or remembers fondly. His quest to annoy his best friend is sliding off his mind, but it’s not completely forgotten.

He has thousands of ways to annoy Noctis, anyway. He’s sure he’ll find a way before they go to sleep.

“…What was that?”

“Huh?”

Noct’s sudden question makes Prompto twist his neck back to look at him, a random video game in his hand. He hadn’t even heard his friend enter the room again, much less sneak up behind him, but there’s Noct, clad in his worn, royal black pajamas, hair slightly mussed from changing clothes. But it’s the look on Noct’s face that makes Prompto frown; he seems surprised, suddenly, and guarded up like he’s never been around Prompto, the different emotions making his eyes darker than usual, and his mouth hang slightly open.

“What was that?” Noct asks again, walking until he’s towering over where Prompto is sitting crosslegged on the floor. Prompto has to crane his neck back to maintain eye-contact.

“What was what, dude? You’re not making any sense—“

“You were singing, just now. I—“ Something changes in Noct’s expression then, as if he’s finally coming back to himself. He looks apologetic for a second, looking down at Prompto. His hand flies to his own hair to tug at the longer strands, those that always seem to curl against the underside of Noct’s jaw. The sight makes Prompto relax, shoulders dropping. He knows his friend isn’t mad, now, and is even more sure of it when Noct speaks again, soft and unsure. “I… I think I’ve heard the song before.”

“Have you? Wait,” Prompto frowns again, out of confusion more than anything. “Was I? Singing, I mean.”

“Mm. More like humming,” Noct sighs then, and curls a leg under himself to drop onto the carpet, right by Prompto’s side. Their knees touch with the movement, and Prompto makes sure it’s his knee that rest over Noctis’ when his friend is settled, so he can bump them together when Noct goes silent for too long. “I—I think I heard it back when I was in Tenebrae…?”

Prompto’s frown deepens, but his heart skips a beat. The video game box he’s holding protests with a creak when Prompto tightens his grip on it. “Dude. You know I’ve never been to Tenebrae before.”

There is a beat of silence, just before Noct lets out another sigh. He seems to finally relax with it, shoulders moving back until Noct is propped up against the edge of the table behind them, head tilted down so his dark hair covers most of his face. “I know.”

“Like, I didn’t even realize I was _singing—_ “

“Yeah, I just—“ Noct shrugs, an elegant movement under the black of his pajamas that for the rest of the world would scream _royalty,_ but that for Prompto only seems to say _dork._ “I don’t know. I heard you, and suddenly I was back in Tenebrae. Uh, I’m sorry if I went a bit weird back there, Prom.”

“Nah, you’re fine,” Prompto uses his advantage point to nudge Noct’s knee with his again, exaggerating the movement so he can also push his shoulder against Noct’s. “I didn’t even realize I was singing, honestly.”

And Prompto really hadn’t realized, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know exactly which song he had been muttering before. It is one that always seems to be inside his head, these days, rising up within himself whenever he lets his mind wander.

He doesn’t know where it comes from, but he has an idea or two about it.

Without another word, Prompto turns back to the stack of scattered video games and resumes his search. He doesn’t want to annoy Noct, anymore. Things aren’t weird between them right now — _like_ , _at all—_ but Prompto also doesn’t want that expression to return to Noct’s face. He had looked surprised, yes, and confused; but under all of that had laid a layer of sadness. As if the stupid tone Prompto had been singing had only brought ill thoughts to his friend’s mind.

And Prompto’s job as Noct’s best friend isn’t to bring him down, but to make sure Noct can have all the fun he can’t have at other times.

“…Hey, Prom.”

“Yeah, buddy?” Prompto replies without looking up from his task. He’s finally narrowed down his choices to five. That’s progress.

“…Nevermind.”

“Hey, no, we don’t do that here!” Prompto _does_ look up now, hitting Noct’s thigh with an empty box to punctuate his words. It’s a wonder Noct hasn’t moved his knee from under Prompto’s, or even moved away entirely. “Spill your beans, Noct.”

It takes a moment, but Noct finally does exactly that. And he does so with eyes casted aside, and a faint blush to his cheeks that brings _another_ blush to Prompto’s own, more noticeable under the sea of freckles that washes the bridge of his nose. Noct looks good like this, all boyish shyness and feigned nonchalance.

It’s not the first time Prompto has thought this, but that doesn’t mean his heart handles it well, anyway.

“Can you…?” Noct starts slowly, licking his lips in his nervousness, and Prompto finds himself leaning forward in his eagerness to listen. “Can you sing that song again? Just for a bit longer.”

The truth is, Prompto knows how to add two and two together. He knows what Tenebrae means to Noctis. Tenebrae is Luna, and Luna is Tenebrae, both of them merged into one in Noctis' heart, to the point that the mere mention of either name makes Noct go all shy. But the fact that Noct is willing to push that shyness away and ask—to show he wants to remember Tenebrae in that moment, through Prompto’s singing, means _something_. Something powerful.

And Prompto is beyond happy he’s trusted with that something.

He’s grateful.

“Of course, Noct,” Prompto says with a smile, without a trace of teasing. “That being _said_ , if you dare to laugh at my singing skills, I won’t ever eat your veggies again! You deal with Iggy’s fury on your own.”

Noct’s laugh is soft and sweet, and it makes Prompto smile back even brighter than before. “Sure. You weren’t doing a bad job at it earlier, anyway.”

The compliment makes a wave of warm feeling surge through Prompto, who turns back forward to hide it. He waits for a second, collecting himself, and then looks within his chest —never his mind—for the tune of that wordless melody that clings to him everywhere he goes.

And when he starts to sing, and Noct closes his eyes by his side, something inside of Prompto clicks into place.

Like finding a missing piece of something dear and discovering that it just _belongs._

 

* * *

 

The news is plastered through every post in every social media ever — and of course that’s how Prompto finds out.

Noct doesn’t go to school that day. His seat, as Prompto takes notice when he takes a detour to the bathroom and passes by Noct’s classroom, is empty, and all his classmates send looks towards it from time to time as if scared of missing the arrival of Crown Prince Noctis, _recently betrothed_. Prompto understands them —he did take that unnecessary detour just to make sure Noct hadn’t come without telling him—but he’s also a bit mad. Noct’s life shouldn’t be turned into gossip.

Even if Prompto is sure there is a clause about that in the hypothetical contract for being a prince.

The media has a field day with the whole ordeal. Photos of Lady Lunafreya and Noct are broadcasted in every screen Prompto lays his eyes on, some even showing edits of those same photos to make it look like they _are_ standing next to each other. Prompto purses his lips at that, but doesn’t comment. Instead, he listens as the newscaster explains that the wedding is part of a peace treaty with the Empire, that it will take place in Altissia, but that it won’t be until Prince Noctis is off age, to allow further negotiations to take place.

Prompto is doing the calculations in his mind when a bell twinkles through campus, and he has to turn off the news on his phone to go back to class.

In four years, Noct will be married to the True Oracle.

The voices of the gods sound giddy in Prompto’s head.

It’s not until the end of the day that he tries to call Noctis. He almost expects for the call to go directly to voicemail, or even simply to ring and ring until Prompto gets fed up with it — but instead, Noct picks up at the first tone.

And his voice sounds broken enough for Prompto to stop in the middle of a sidewalk, frozen in place.

“Hey,” Noctis whispers into the receiver, and Prompto clutches his phone tighter in his hand.

“Hey, buddy,” Prompto replies, all cheerful energy. “Congratulations! I heard it on the news!”

Noct’s sigh breaks with the static of the call, and something rustles just at the other side, like sheets being ruffled. “Yeah. Thanks, Prom.”

“Gee, tone down the excitement, Noct,” there’s people groaning around Prompto as they try to walk around him —he _is_ just standing in the middle of the sidewalk—, shoulders bumping against his, so Prompto starts walking again, following the flow of people because he’s too concentrated on the call to care where his feet take him.

Noct is silent on the other end. Nothing reaches Prompto except Noct’s breathing and the sound of sheets being moved, but at least that’s enough to let Prompto know he’s not talking to a dead call.

“Are you in bed?” Prompto asks, just to keep the one-sided conversation going. He stops at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to go green, and the glare of a screen in the building in front of him blinds him for a second: it’s that awful edit of Lady Lunafreya and Noctis actually together. “Dude, I thought you weren’t in class because of the whole marriage thing—“

“Yes, Prompto, I _am_ in bed. I’m pretty sure finding out you’re going to get married to one of your friends is reason enough to skip class.”

Prompto flinches at that, biting the inside of his cheek before saying “yeah, you have a point there.” The silence drags long enough again that Prompto worries Noct picked up the phone without meaning to. The light at the crosswalk goes green, and the people around Prompto start walking. Prompto follows them. His briefcase, usually thrown over his shoulder, simply bumps against the side of Prompto’s thigh as dejectedly as Prompto feels. “Listen, Noct,” Prompto starts; his mouth is suddenly almost too dry to speak. “If—if you don’t want to talk right now that’s fine, we can just hang up—“

“It’s okay,” Noct replies, cutting Prompto mid-sentence. “Actually… could you come over?”

“Why?” Prompto asks back, and it’s an honest question. His mind is going too fast for him to even think straight.

“Because I could use a distraction,” Noct replies, voice muffled, and Prompto can picture him clearly burying his face against his pillow. “And I know that if I put a foot out of here, people will want to talk to me and I’m not in the mood.”

“But if you don’t want to talk, are you sure you’ll want me the—?”

“You’re not _people_ , Prom,” Noct’s voice is cutting but not unkind. It’s funny, but Prompto thinks fleetingly that it’s a tone fitting for a prince. “Just get your ass here.”

“Fine, fine,” he was about to cross another street, but Prompto changes the direction of his feet at the last moment, so he just keeps walking down the same sidewalk, in the general direction of Noct’s apartment. “I’ll just take the train and I’ll be right—“

“No,” Noct suddenly says. “I’ll send Ignis. I’m not—at my apartment right now.”

Prompto knows what that means. It means that Noct is at his room in the Citadel, surrounded by guards and gold and _royalty_ , and that Prompto has to go through them all to see him.

His silence must be telling enough, because Noct does something with his mouth that lets Prompto know he’s rolling his eyes at him through the phone. “You’ve been here before, Prompto—“

“Hey, if I don’t get to talk about the wedding, you don’t get to talk about my irrational fear of running into your dad when I go to the Citadel. And mind you, I’ve only been there _once._ ”

“…Fair enough. Just—“

“Get my ass there! Yes, _Highness_ ,” that’s Prompto’s turn to roll his eyes, but he’s also smiling softly against the bottom of his phone.

“Dork,” Noct replies through a smile of his own. “Ignis will be there in a bit. And don’t worry, he’ll go with you to my room.”

But Ignis does not, in fact, take Prompto right to Noctis’ room.

He does come for him, but the car ride goes by without them sharing more than a ‘hey’. It’s not because Ignis is silent, though; Ignis spends the whole ride talking, just not with _Prompto._ It’s funny to see him navigate the city effortlessly while also concentrated on the conversation he’s having with his earpiece, both hands on the steering wheel as Ignis says some words Prompto has never heard in his life, in any context, but that Prompto knows are all related to royalty.

Still, Prompto can’t shake the idea that Ignis is amazing. He might be a little awed by him through the whole ride.

But when they get to the Citadel, and Ignis sends him an apologetic smile through the rearview mirror, Prompto knows this amazing man is going to fail him today. The guards at the door are already approaching the car, confused by the fact that no one is coming out of it and the engine is still going. Prompto sends a single, pleading look back to Ignis, but it’s no use; Ignis is concentrated on his call again, shaking his head at whatever it is he’s hearing.

So Prompto sighs, throwing the door open just as the guards reach the car.

They freeze as soon as they set their eyes on Prompto, who can only gawk at them as they all bow in front of him. These guards, massive and armed like the statues that protect the Citadel, are bowing in front of _Prompto._ Prompto, who still has a smudge on his neck from the chocolate bar he had for dessert, and whose hair resembles a nest because he actually tried to style it in some way during the morning.

 _These_ royal guards are bowing to _that_ Prompto, and Prompto might be 0.5 seconds away from a cardiac arrest.

“Prince Noctis is waiting for you, Lord Argentum,” one of the guards says, and Prompto’s name sounds so foreign, so _wrong_ said like that, that Prompto visibly flinches. “He assured us you would be able to reach his room on your own, but if you need any help—“

“N-no, everything’s fine, ‘m fine, no worries!” The words come tumbling out of Prompto’s mouth, one after the other, to become an intelligible mess in the open air. Prompto winces again. “Uh. I can get to Noct just fine, thank you.”

“As you wish, Lord Argentum.”

“Uh… Prompto’s fine.”

“Yes, Lord Argentum.”

Prompto simply leaves at that, only barely managing not to just run away. He’s thought about what being royalty would feel like, of course he has. He’s seen Noct being whisked away by a beautiful black car, and wondered what would that feel like, knowing that no matter where you went, no matter the weather, you’d have a car waiting for you to take you to your next destination. He’s seen Ignis pay for groceries with a quick movement of his hand and the flash of a silver card, and he’s wondered how would it feel to look not at the price tags, but at the different brands of each product. He’s got glimpses of what royalty feels like over the last few years.

So he’s surprised to find himself reeling back from being called ‘Lord’. As if that was the last straw.

But as he walks alone towards Noctis’ room, a part of himself starts to realize there might be an actual reason for that. The True Oracle —Lady Lunafreya. The Fake One—Prompto Argentum.

Fakes aren’t lords. They’re commoners with secrets tattooed on their wrists, and voices that they shouldn’t hear forever stuck in their head.

Luckily, Prompto is at Noct’s door before he can spiral down that trail of thought. He doesn’t even bother to knock — his friend has made him cross half the city _and_ lied to him about being accompanied to his door, so he can just suck the fact that Prompto isn’t going to knock. Prompto simply lets himself in, closes the door behind his back, and stomps past the living room of Noct’s chambers and to his room.

“You are a bad, bad friend, Noctis!” He says as he dramatically pushes the door open, voice loud enough to make Noct’s form on the bed freeze in surprise. “You left me, alone to fend for myself against the monsters of the Citadel, with nothing but my wits to keep me alive! How dare you!”

“If you really only had your wits with you, I’m surprised you’re still alive.” Noct replies from beneath the covers, only the crown of his head peeking out.

“The nerve!” Prompto shouts, and lets himself flop on the bed, right next to Noctis. When he splays his arms at his sides, his wrist hits Noct on the hip, hard enough to make Noct kick him back in retaliation. “The betrayal!”

Noct kicks him again, the blow muffled by the covers over his legs. “Gods, you _really_ are a dork _.”_

 _“_ You love me, though! Even if you did abandon me back there, buddy.”

The bed is big enough that Prompto has room to turn on his side, facing the back of Noct’s head, and not touch him. His friend is still hiding beneath the covers, though, the lumpy outline of his body rising and falling with every breath Noct takes. The room is warm and silent, and Prompto lets it be like that.

So it’s Noct who breaks the silence, voice once again muffled by the covers and his pillow, but soft nevertheless. “Sorry, Prompto. I really thought Iggy would come with you up here.”

“Meh, it’s okay. He seemed busy.”

Noct’s head resurfaces at that, covers falling to rest below his chin, but he still doesn’t turn around. “Everyone’s busy. With—the wedding, I mean.”

Prompto frowns at that, his fingers scratching at the space of empty blanket that rests between their bodies. “But I thought it won’t be for another four years?”

“Well, yeah, but everyone is excited about it. Not the happy kind of excited, though,” Noct moves, and his shoulder peeks over the edge of the covers. Then his forearm makes an appearance, and then his hand is resting over his own hip, pale skin a stark contrast against the dark blue covers. Prompto knows small victories when he sees them, so he makes sure to stay still. “The only reason why I can stay here today’s because Specs is covering for me.”

With a deep sigh, Prompto nuzzles his cheek against Noct’s pillow. It smells of softener, and shampoo, and Noct’s cologne. “Iggy’s amazing, isn’t he?”

“Careful,” Noct replies with a snort. “Your crush is showing.”

“It. Is. Not. A. _Crush!”_ Prompto says, ending each of the words with a kick to Noct’s covered butt, his heel digging into the plush that is the blanket until he can find solid body underneath. “It’s just respect and admiration for a grown, beautiful man!”

“Ouch, ouch, stop that, what are you, five!?” Noct’s protest goes unheard by Prompto, who keeps kicking Noct until Noct’s hand shoots down to slap Prompto on his naked ankle, trying and failing to catch Prompto’s quick feet.

But the movement makes Noct turn around finally, covers falling to his hips as he comes face to face with Prompto. Their eyes meet over the empty space between them, and Prompto smiles a lazy, comfortable smile as he angles his chin up. His blond hair falls over Noct’s pillow.

“Hey, buddy,” Prompto whispers when the kicking has stopped and they just lay on the bed, looking at each other in silence.

“Hey, Prom.”

“How are you doing?”

It’s a loaded question, so Prompto gives Noct his time to answer. There is a thrumming sound at the back of Prompto’s brain, soft but insistent. But this isn’t the time; if Prompto is going to hear someone’s voice right now, it’s only going to be Noct’s.

“…I don’t—“ Noct starts, looks away, bites his lip. All clear signs of confused, maybe even upset Noctis. “I’m not…”

“It’s okay, Noct. I get it,” Prompto says, and Prompto _does_. The swirl of emotions is clear in his friends face, even if the nature of said emotions is well hidden behind a practiced mask. “But it could be worse, right? I mean, at least you _know_ Lady Lunafreya.”

“…But isn’t that worse?”

“Huh?”

Noctis hesitates for a second. His lashes cast shadows over the night sky in his eyes, turning them impossibly dark despite the light in the room. “I mean— I’ve known Luna for almost my whole life, but I’ve never wanted to _marry her—_ “

“O-oh,” Prompto mumbles, surprised at how tight his chest feels all of a sudden. “So you’re not—going to marry her?”

Noct rolls his eyes. He’s found a loose thread on the blanket, and he’s pulling at it without looking up at Prompto. “Of course I am. I guess I’m just… mourning the fact that I don’t get to choose, I guess. I—care for Luna. I always will. But I never thought about her when I thought about marriage.”

The tightness in Prompto’s chest grows heavier at that. “I didn’t know you thought about that kind of stuff.”

Noct looks up then. He really has the night sky in his eyes. “Well, don’t you?”

Prompto’s answer is simply a shrug. He hopes that’s enough.

There are too many things inside his head. Too many feelings in his chest. But there is one that captures Prompto’s attention the most, because it’s the one that is carried by the voices of the gods in his ears. The King of Light and the True Oracle belong together. Only together will they be able to keep the darkness at bay. _That_ is the will of the gods.

So Noct’s admission of not wanting this — his tender admission of wanting something _else_ — leaves the side of Prompto that has been listening to the gods speak of the union of King and True Oracle with a bitter taste in his mouth.

It doesn’t mean that he understands the feeling, or that he even likes it. But it’s _there._

And it must show on his face, because Noct reaches forward with his leg to bump their knees together, one under the covers, the other on top.

“Hey. You okay?” Noct asks softly, as if it’s not _his_ life that has had a brusque change. As if it isn’t _his_ future other people are deciding for him. “You look kind of sad all of a sudden.”

Prompto thinks his answer through, trying to make sense of the feelings inside his chest. He can’t name them all, but there is one thing that he’s sure of. One thing that Prompto believes more than anything else.

“I’m fine,” Prompto says, meeting Noct’s eyes over the covers. “But Noct— I think you’ll be fine, too. Whatever happens… You’ll be alright, in the end.”

Noct’s eyes open with surprise as he stares at Prompto. He’s rigid all over, but not in a bad way; Prompto’s words have reached him, pure and sweet as they are, and it only takes a second for Noct to relax once again, his body rocking forward and closer to Prompto’s than before.

In the silence that follows, Noct moves his hand so his knuckles rest against Prompto’s on the bed, in the space between them, back against back. Noct’s skin is warm and soft, warming Prompto’s own cold hands as the contact remains.

When Noct speaks again, he does so with his eyes glued to their hands, to the way their fingers curl away from the contact, but the backs of their hands rest comfortably against each other.

“…Thank you, Prom,” Noct whispers softly, and the tightness in Prompto’s chest disappears.

Just like that.

“Anytime, Noct.”

 

* * *

 

If RPGs have taught Prompto something, it’s that the difficulty in battles is linear.

In retrospect, the battles at the very beginning are the easiest. The level of the character is low, yes, but the enemies are prepared so that you can keep playing, getting used to the controls, _winning._ And then, as the game goes on, the enemies turn vicious and violent, so the playable character can continue getting stronger.

But not at first. At the very beginning, battling is supposed to be simple. Easy.

So Prompto feels like he gets to be mad when a Sabertusk claws at his arm, tearing the skin apart from elbow to wrist and making a spray of blood rise into the early morning sky, just a few days after their road trip begins.

It pulls a cry out of him, along with the blood and skin. Somewhere beyond, Prompto hears Noctis shouting his name, and Gladio calling for Ignis to get him a potion, but nothing happens aside from that. Prompto finds his way to the floor, curled around his arm as raw pain makes everything else disappear.

His arm is dislocated. The force of the blow has forced the bone out of the socket of his shoulder, and there is a splinter from the Sabertusk’s claw stuck into his bleeding skin still. It’s big, bigger than Prompto’s thumb, and twice as thick.

Prompto shakes, curls in further into himself, and vomits. The bile of his stomach mingles with the blood from his arm, and he retches again.

But he doesn’t pass out. The pain is too much, and his vision is swimming, but he’s still conscious. He doesn’t know where his friends are. He doesn’t know where he himself is, actually. He is only aware of the pain, and the warm blood soaking through the earth beneath him.

He’s only aware of that, and the loud voices of the gods urging him forward.

Through his foggy mind, Prompto fights to lift his other arm, the one that is still in one piece. It weighs too much, as if it was suddenly made of metal instead of flesh and bone, and Prompto has an instant of panic where he thinks he can’t even move it. But the arm moves, and so, as he lays on his side on the bloody earth near Hammerhead, Prompto forces the palm of his hand to press against the wound in his arm. His fingers are quickly becoming red and sticky, but again, he doesn’t notice.

Instead, he starts to mumble.

“ _Blessed Stars of life and light…”_ Prompto’s gaze wavers as a bright, gentle light starts to shine right in front of his eyes. He’s barely aware of what’s happening, though; his brain can only register the fact that the pain is _receding_. “ _…deliver us from darkness’ blight…”_

And just like that, the pain is gone. It takes Prompto a second to realize, but soon he’s moving the fingers of his injured arm, pulling his arm closer to his chest without a trace of pain from his shoulder. He’s still laying on the blood-soaked ground, still a bit dizzy, with everything around him fuzzy at the edges, but he’s _fine_.

His arm is completely healed, pale skin with freckles completely intact, and Prompto is _fine._

“Prompto!” Someone shouts overhead, and Prompto even finds the strength to look up towards the sound in time to see Noct run towards him. The battle is over, it seems, the body of the Sabertusk nothing but a big lump in the distance. Prompto only has a second to wish for everyone to be okay before Noct reaches his side, quickly reaching for his arm with a distraught expression on his face. “I’m here, Prom, I’m here. Just let me—what?”

“What is it?” Someone else asks—Gladio, bloody sword thrown over his shoulder as he, too, looks at Prompto with a worried expression. “Is it that bad?”

“He’s… fine,” Noctis finally says, leaning back on the balls of his feet. His eyes move to Prompto’s glassy ones; maybe he’s not at risk of losing his arm anymore, but Prompto feels like he could just slip into a nice, long nap right there right now. “But I saw it. I saw the beast get you! And all this blood…”

“He probably used a potion on himself,” Ignis says, pushing his glasses up with the tip of a finger. “Still, he must have lost a lot of blood. He looks out of himself, as well. It’d be a good idea to let him rest for a bit, before continuing on.”

“…Yeah,” Noct agrees, but when his eyes meet Prompto’s, Prompto knows he’s not buying it. Noct knows Prompto didn’t have any potions on himself.

“Come on, Blondie,” Gladio says, and suddenly the cold ground is replaced by Gladio’s muscles, his arms lifting Prompto up until he’s cradled against his chest like a rag-doll. Prompto is too tired to even protest about it. “One look at your Cindy and you’ll be feeling better in no time.”

Prompto lets his head rest against Gladio’s shoulder, against his own better judgment. He knows he’ll get made fun of for this later, for letting Gladio carry him around after a battle like a little kid, but he can’t help it. His eyelids are already too heavy for him to keep open, sleep calling him in a way it never has, before.

But just as his eyes are falling closed, Prompto gets a glimpse of Noctis over Gladio’s shoulder, and the look his friend sends him makes ice crawl in his veins.

He’s almost glad when sleep finally drags him under, so he doesn’t have to think of an answer.

 

* * *

 

The earth rumbles as Noct goes down to his knees, clutching at his head.

“Noct!” Ignis shouts, but it’s too late. The ground is shaking so bad that Prompto can barely hold himself up. Even Gladio is holding onto a pillar of stone, eyes fastened on Noct’s crutched form.

So when the crack appears, right between Noct and the rest of them and Noct falls, it is Gladio the first to reach out, sliding down with him and beyond the edge of the earth.

“Noct! Gladio!” Prompto shouts, but Ignis’ gloved hand on his chest keeps him in place. There is something moving just beyond the edge of the newly formed cliff, something big and horrifying that makes Prompto’s knees shake.

It is only when Titan raises his head from the confines of the earth that the ground finally stops shaking.

 _‘Only those who are worthy shall receive the power of the gods,’_ Titan rumbles, his voice shaking the very core of Prompto’s heart. ‘ _Are you worthy, King of Light?’_

“…He wants to test Noct—“ Prompto finds himself saying, horror making his hands shake at his sides. How, how could Noct ever compete against a _god?_

“What?” Ignis asks beside him, his hand still fitted on the front of Prompto’s shirt, keeping him there. But it’s easy to push his friend away; Prompto crawls to the very edge of the cliff, using all of his willpower to look away from Titan and down instead, following the loose bits of stone on their way down.

“Noct!” Prompto shouts, trying to see through the cloud of dust that the landslide created. “You okay?”

The dust settles, finally, and there they are, Gladio and Noct standing before the Archean. The sight alone is terrifying, but the low grumbles of the ancient god don’t make things better, either. Prompto tries to concentrate on his words — _has_ to concentrate on them for the first time in his life; but Ignis steps close to him then, hand on Prompto’s shoulder to lean over the edge and look down.

“Thank heavens you’re safe—!” Ignis sighs, his hand relaxing its grip on Prompto’s shoulder.

But Prompto wouldn’t cry victory so soon. Titan has stopped talking, but his words keep replaying in Prompto’s mind, over and over, now clear as day. A trial for the King of Light, beseeched by the Oracle, so the powers of the gods can be delivered to humankind…

Prompto shakes again, watching Noct look up at them. How can _he_ protect Noct from the trials of a _god_?

“Be careful, now!” Ignis suddenly exclaims by Prompto’s side, only to walk away with so much as a soft tug to Prompto’s vest.

“You too!” Noct shouts from beyond, turning away and further into the caves.

“What!?” Prompto turns to look at Ignis, who already has some advantage on him. He’s getting even further away now, so Prompto moves up onto shaky feet, making sure he’s stepping onto solid ground before running after his friend. “We’re going where!?”

“We’re going to find a way down,” Ignis explains, patiently but with a purpose. His strides are long, and they force Prompto to trot by his side just to catch up. “It’ll take a while, but we can skirt along the cliff until we find a path.”

“But we can’t let Noct alone now! Titan is—“

Prompto catches himself before he can say anything else. He looks away, ignoring the look Ignis sends him, but not before he can catch the surprise behind those thin-rimmed glasses.

The surprise, and the suspicion.

“Noct’s not alone, though,” Ignis says in the end, after a long pause that ends with him looking forward once again. “Gladio’s with him.”

Prompto nods, because there isn’t much more for him to do right now. He can’t tell Ignis about the threats of Titan, how he promises pain and death if the King doesn’t prove himself worthy. He can’t tell him about the ire with which he speaks of Lady Lunafreya, having woken him up with what Titan considers entitlement. It is Titan who will decide if he is to give his powers to Noctis or not.

And Gladio, no matter how good and strong he is, will not be able to do a thing if Titan decides against it.

But Prompto can’t exactly jump off the cliff and follow Noct, not if he wants to live long enough to actually talk to him again. So he follows Ignis down the long path, watching Titan in the distance as he moves sluggishly but with destructive power, rock and dust lifting in the air—right along with Noct’s screams.

They reach the bottom of the crater where Noct is fending off Titan a moment before it’s too late. The weapons in the Armiger look almost weak as Noct calls them forth to detain the god’s attacks, the sound of metal against rock making goosebumps appear on Prompto’s skin. He summons his gun in the blink of an eye, running towards Noct despite the pain in his side from running all the way down—but bullets do even less, and Prompto feels his heart sink into his stomach every time one of them simply bounces off Titan’s big head.

His hand shakes as he lowers his gun, head tilted up to look at Titan.

“Prompto!” Gladio shouts from somewhere, voice deep among the rumbling of rock. “Get it together!”

Prompto is trying. He _is,_ but every word the god croaks sends spikes of fear down Prompto’s spine. The way he talks about Noct—as if he was nothing but a spec of dust in a desert, as if his existence meant nothing for the god—makes Prompto feel sick to his stomach. How dare he—how dare this god not believe in the King of Light, in the power of the True Oracle?

How dare Titan not believe in _Noct?_

Prompto’s gun disappears from his hand as he starts running, the blue specks of light flickering at the corners of his vision before Prompto leaves them behind. He hears, distantly, Ignis shouting at him to stay back and away, but Prompto can’t stop right now. Noct is on the ground, gasping for breath—and Titan’s hand is coming down, fingers splayed as if he were to squash a fly under his palm.

But Noct is not a fly. Noct is Prompto’s best friend.

So Prompto skids to a stop in front of Noct’s crutched form, hands raised over his head and towards the god as fury dances in his eyes.

“Prom—!”

“ _Enough, Titan!”_

The god stops. The god _freezes_ , hand still hovering above both boys as if he can’t decide whether to continue with his attack or obey Prompto’s command. Because there is no other way to define Prompto’s scream; loud and clear, Prompto’s words have reached the god, who finally moves his hand away so he can peer at Prompto curiously, stone eyes reflecting the light of Noct’s Armiger.

‘ _This is not your battle, Oracle,’_ Titan says in that language that Prompto shouldn’t be able to understand. But he does, clear as day, and the words only make Prompto curl his hands into fists at his sides. ‘ _Move away.’_

“I’m not going anywhere,” Prompto replies. His voice is uncharacteristically steady; it breaks when facing something as simple as an Anak, but it doesn’t even waver in the face of a god. “You call this a trial!? What use is the King of Light to you, if you _kill him?”_

‘ _The King of Light shall prove himself worthy of the gods’ power,’_ is Titan’s simple reply.

So of course it does nothing to soothe Prompto, who even gives a step forward towards the god. “Noct is plenty worthy! He is here, isn’t he? He’s ready to listen to you, but you won’t let him!”

“…Prom,” Prompto hears behind him, too soft for what he’s used to, and it’s only then that he realizes Noct’s fingers are around his wrist, two fingers wrapped around the wristband, keeping him still. “Prom, what the hell are you doing?”

Prompto should probably explain. Prompto wants to explain. But Titan is still looking at him with what Prompto can almost imagine is a curious gaze, and Noct is holding onto him while looking daggers at the back of his neck, and Prompto just. Can’t.

He should have known he couldn’t keep secrets forever. He just wished his friends finally knowing his secret wouldn’t end up with them squished by the heel of a god’s hand.

 _‘You must stand aside, Oracle,’_ Titan says, and Prompto gets the impression his patience is running thin. He’s surprised Titan had any to begin with. _‘This is not your calling.’_

Prompto takes a breath in, holds it.

He’s so done with gods already.

“Good thing I’m not the Oracle, then,” Prompto says, and as soon as his gun is back in his hand, he shoots Titan directly in the eye.

The god’s scream is enough to paralyze Prompto. But Noct is still there, still with his hand around Prompto’s wrist, so it’s him who pushes Prompto away and behind his back, the blue lights of the Armiger flashing as Noct summons the Axe of the Conqueror. He smashes it into the god’s arm as the god trashes in pain, but it only manages to stop the blow that would have thrown both Prompto and Noctis towards the nearest rock wall.

“Noct!” Ignis shouts from behind, and suddenly Noct’s gone, and the temperature is dropping. Prompto keeps firing, trying to aim for that wounded eye that oozes something dark and dense into the earth below, but he has to stop when his teeth clack furiously from the cold.

And then it’s over. Iggy and Noct manage to freeze the god’s arm, and Noct swings one of the royal arms over his head to let it drop onto the mountain of ice before him— shattering the god’s arm with one single blow.

The ice shards that fly away from the explosion cut at Prompto’s naked arms, at his cheeks. Prompto feels frost cling to the black of his uniform, and to his eyelashes—and then he falls to his knees, suddenly too exhausted to move.

At least Titan seems to feel the same, for he has stopped above him, leaning on his now amputated arm as he struggles to catch his breath.

“It’s over,” Gladio mutters, throwing his sword over his shoulder.

“Everyone still here?” Noct asks, looking around. The icy air is thick around them with fog, but Prompto can make the silhouettes of his friends nearby, all of them up on their feet.

“Yep, still here,” Gladio replies.

“If a little battered…” Ignis finishes, but there is relief in his voice. Prompto smiles at it.

“…Prom? You okay?”

Prompto’s heart skips a beat at the worry in Noct’s voice, despite everything. He inhales again and moves back, so he’s sitting on his own calves, head tilted back to let the cold air brush against his cheeks. It stings, but Prompto lets it be. “Yeah. Fine.”

The mist is dissipating already, letting Prompto see when Noct moves closer. He has that expression on again, the one Prompto has only seen in certain situations. It’s the one that lets Prompto know Noct is feeling too many things at the same time, but that won’t let others know what those emotions are, exactly. But this time it’s different, because it’s Prompto who has put that expression, those emotions, on his friend’s face.

So he just sits back and lets Noct come closer, not really daring to meet Noct’s eyes.

“Prompto,” Noct starts, and Prompto shivers. The name alone sounds—accusing. “What were yo— _argh!”_

“Noct!”

The ground is trembling again, stronger and more fiercely than before. But that doesn’t matter because Noct is screaming again, hands clutching and pulling at his hair as his face morphs into an expression of pure pain. Above them, Titan starts speaking again as he rises, spatting the words out like the mere act of speaking causes him a deep pain.

“What’s going on? What do you want now!?”

“This is the big one, guys!” Gladio shouts, stepping into an attacking stance. There is golden light surrounding Titan, shining through the crevices in his rock body like magma through the broken skirts of a volcano. “Get ready!”

“No!” Prompto shouts, just as he reaches Noctis. It’s easy to wind his arms around Noct, holding him steady as the golden light flows from the god towards them. “He’s giving you his power, Noct,” Prompto explains as he holds Noct upright, so they can both move to their feet. “He finds you worthy of it.”

As if on cue, the god speaks again. ‘ _The King of Light shall acquire the power of Titan. But beware, young King. There are many trials for you still, in your journey.’_

“What…” Noct starts, moving to the side to cling to Prompto just as tightly as Prompto clings to him. “What is he saying…?”

Prompto licks his own lips, looking from the god to his friend. “He…”

But there is no time to explain. The specks of golden light surround Noct, lighting him up like stars in the sky, and then Noct goes silent, eyes seeing something that isn’t there. Prompto holds him through it, resting his forehead on Noct’s shoulder.

“….Luna—“ Noct whispers, going tense. Prompto looks up at the name, at the surprise and longing in Noct’s voice. His teeth are grinding together, tension building up in his jaw. “You talked to her. That’s why—“

Noct grunts, and goes silent once again. The lights from the power of Titan still float around him, disappearing into his body not too differently from the way the royal arms do. So Prompto just holds him still, looking around for Gladio and Ignis, who watch the both of them with matching expressions of incredulity.

“…Prompto,” Noct suddenly says, so Prompto turns towards him, eyes wide—but Noct is still seeing what the god wants him to see, eyes vacant as he stares into nothingness and into everything at the same time. “Prompto is—“

The lights around the god turn brighter, painfully so, and Noct comes back to himself. Together, with Prompto’s arms still around him, Prompto and Noct stumble away as Titan starts to roar, growing brighter and brighter until it’s impossible for them to look at him.

And then the whole world explodes around them, and they can do nothing but let the force of it blow them away.

There’s lava and rock falling _everywhere_. Prompto has never seen something like this, before. There is no way they can go back the way Ignis and Prompto came through, and Prompto gets the idea that Noct and Gladio’s way is a no go, either. They’re stuck here, with no way out, and Prompto can feel the others realize this just as fast as he does.

_All this work… to end like this?_

“We need to move,” Gladio starts, turning his back towards them and facing a path only he can see. “Now!”

“Wait,” Noct says, and twists his body to look at Prompto. The look in his eyes is severe; Prompto thinks Noct has ever looked at him like that, before. “I want some answers, first.”

Prompto bites his lip, looking away. “N-now is not the time for this, Noct!”

“No, that’s right. You should have told us _way_ before. You should have told us you can understand the language of the gods! That you can actually _speak_ to them!”

Prompto sighs. He understands the anger in Noct’s voice, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. “Noct, please. I…”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Prom?” Noct asks when Prompto says nothing else. He’s closer than the others, but not enough to touch.

Prompto keeps his eyes away, at least at first. “I know what you’re thinking,” Prompto says. His heart is beating too fast, almost choking him, but it seems to stop beating completely when his eyes find Noct’s through the distance and the red-hot lava. “But I’m not an Oracle, Noct. I have nothing to do with Lady Lunafreya.”

Noct frowns, hands curled into fists. “But you just—“

“Can we get out of here first?” Prompto asks—almost begs. He can feel the heat from the earth licking at the sides of his neck, and at the wristband covering his wrist. “I’ll—explain everything, I promise. But maybe somewhere we won’t end up as barbecue meat?”

“…It’s not like it matters,” Gladio suddenly says, arms strangely empty of weapons. “There’s no way out—“

But just as he says so, the sound of machinery reaches all their ears, and they look up to see the airships of the Empire floating down to them, pushing the flames and dust away with the power of their engines. Ignis calls to caution, but it’s Noct’s voice Prompto is tuned to.

“You’re not getting out of this so easily, Prom” Noct promises, looking at Prompto through narrowed eyes, but the nickname softens the blow, somewhat.

So Prompto gives him a tired, sad smile, and a nod. “I know, buddy.”

When the airship’s ramp opens to reveal Ardyn inside, Prompto can’t even muster the energy to be uncomfortable.

 

* * *

 

Prompto doesn’t get to explain himself until they manage to find a safe haven to camp in, alone in the dark but safe under the familiar blue light.

No one urges him to start talking, but the silence that falls around camp is telling enough. Prompto finds himself stirring his cup noodles around —because honestly, who has energy to cook after battling a god— when it happens, and he doesn’t need to look up from the single shrimp in his cup to know they’re all waiting.

So Prompto inhales the delicious aroma of his noddles, soaks the warmth of the cup into his palms, and starts to speak.

“When I was five, my adoptive parents realized there was something wrong with me. I wasn’t adopted straight into the Argentum family. I—barely remember those people anymore, but I don’t remember being unhappy with them, either. They were sweet, I think. Or sweet enough to take me to the doctor when they realized I wasn’t exactly normal, anyway.”

“Prompto…” Noct starts, but Prompto shakes his head. He needs to let it all out first, or he’ll lose courage.

“No one found anything wrong with me. The doctors said I just had a vivid imagination. But I just kept talking about the voices in my head, creating stories about—“ Prompto looks up, and his eyes find Noct’s eyes over the campfire, lit up with the colors of the embers. “About you, I guess. Stories about the King of Light and the Oracle that would save us all. Because that was what the voices I kept hearing spoke about. It took a long time to realize they were not stories… they were prophecies.

“A few months before I was given to the Argentums, my adoptive parents took me to Insomnia. I only know this because I found the records in the boxes the Argentums’ were given when they took me in, and from a couple of vague memories. I was brought—before some kind of council, I—I don’t know. They— my parents. They were obsessed with the idea that I was… the Oracle. The doctors never found anything, after all, so they were so sure I just _had to be_ an Oracle of some sort, at least…”

“But the Council didn’t believe them,” Ignis gently finishes for him, nodding with his head when Prompto’s voice dies down. “The Nox Fleuret line has always been the Oracle line. For them to believe in someone else having the powers of the Oracle—“

Now is Prompto’s time to nod, a sad smile on his face. “Yeah. It was quickly proven that I was in no way related to the Oracle’s line. And I was five, I think. I didn’t know what was going on. They asked thousands of questions, and I’d be too kind if I said I answered five of them correctly. I just—I just wanted to go home,” Prompto shrugs, and he seems incredibly small all of a sudden, as he looks at the cracking flames without really seeing anything. “They branded me as a fake, in the end. I was just a kid who knew too much, probably influenced by ‘the fervor of his parents’, as they apparently put it. I was taken from them, and given to the Argentum family—and I learned to never speak about the prophecies in my head again.”

“So you…” it seems only Ignis could speak, out of the other three, but even he’s having trouble doing it. His gloved hands are doing something Prompto has never seen Ignis do before: they are moving nervously between Ignis’ knees, fingers locking and unlocking together. “You have gone your whole life listening to the musings of the gods… with no one to talk to about it?”

Prompto shrugs again. “I got used to it. I got pretty good at tuning them out too. The other powers though, like healing and stuff—those are more recent. Handy, but recent.”

“I did notice you were getting better at not getting your ass kicked in battle,” Gladio suddenly says, looking at Prompto with narrowed eyes. “I guess you just got better at hiding it.”

There is nothing Prompto can say to that, so he says nothing. He simply keeps a sad smile on his lips, feeling his sore body unable to relax against the chair. Even if it feels kind of good, to let out in the open a secret like that.

“…Why didn’t you tell us?” Noctis finally asks, speaking for the first time that night. He isn’t looking at Prompto, when Prompto finally dares to look up. He’s just looking down at his hands.

“…How?” Prompto asks back, also looking away. “How could I tell _you_ that I— that I had these abilities, these powers, but I’m nothing but a fake? That my existence is a mistake? Or even that I’m just a shadow of what Lady Lunafreya was always destined to be?” Prompto shakes his head, leg moving up and down nervously. “I couldn’t. Not now that I finally had something that was mine _._ That was… real.”

He’s said too much. Prompto feels it in the air, the tension growing tighter until it feels like it’s going to snap. It almost makes it impossible to breathe.

Or maybe it’s just Prompto’s heart, threatening to choke him, until he’s praying to the very same gods he despises.

“Sorry,” Prompto suddenly says, jumping to his feet. He needs a moment, two, _thirty_ , to clear up his mind. To make sure he isn’t going to cry in front of the three guys he looks up to the most. “I’ll— I’ll be right back.”

“Prompto—!” Someone shouts behind him, but Prompto doesn’t turn to see who. He’s out of the camp before he can even think about it, head a mess, but always aware that there are daemons and beasts lurking around in the shadows. So Prompto leaves, but he makes sure to be within the range of the Armiger, just in case.

That’s why Noct finds him easily, only a few minutes after Prompto has run out of camp. He’s sitting down by the roots of an ancient tree when Noct reaches him, slightly out fo breath, cheeks rosy. It makes Prompto think, with his knees pressed against his chest, that maybe Noct has run after him, after all.

But it’s a stupid thought, so he squishes it down as hard as he can, and never lets it resurface again.

Noct freezes when he finds Prompto, hesitating for just a second before crossing the small clearing and standing over Prompto’s sitting form. Prompto could look up, meet his friend’s eyes, but he doesn’t dare to. He prefers the darkness he finds between his knees, cool and silent.

Forgiving.

“…You shouldn’t wander off,” Noct says, turning his whole body slightly, so he’s standing next to Prompto rather than in front of him. “It’s dangerous at night.”

“Yeah… I know,” Prompto hates how wet his voice sounds. At least the skin of his cheeks is dry when he looks up, the back of his head now pressed against the bark of the tree behind him. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

He expects Noct to nod, maybe linger a second or two before heading back. What he doesn’t expect is for Noct to nudge Prompto’s shoulder with his knee, just to let himself flop right by Prompto’s side, so close that their shoulders just press together in the darkness. “Then I’ll wait with you,” Noct says, not looking at Prompto, and the odd, warm feeling is back in Prompto’s chest.

“…I’m sorry, Noct,” Prompto says before the silence can stretch for too long. “I know I should have told you, I just—“

“You should have told us, yeah,” Prompto only realizes how close they’re sitting when Noct turns to look at him. For a moment, it’s like the night sky has fallen between them, and that’s the only thing he can see — a nebulous dark sky in Noctis’ eyes, surrounded by thick eyelashes that make Prompto want to lean forward and feel them flutter against his cheeks. “But—It’s okay. I mean…” Noct stumbles with the words, hesitates, licks his lips as if that will make it easier for them to come out. Prompto can feel Noct’s frustration with himself, and other times, Prompto would have stopped him, and told him he understood. But tonight—Prompto needs this. If he’s going to be selfish at some point in his life, it has to be tonight; sitting in the darkness pressed against his best friend, after pouring his secret out to the only friends he’s ever known.

Tonight, Prompto allows himself to be selfish.

And tonight, Noct allows himself to be vulnerable.

“I don’t care what you are not—“ Noct finally says, turning to look at Prompto once more, and pinning Prompto with the weight of his stare. “—As long as you’re always you, Prompto.”

It’s exactly what Prompto needs to hear. It’s perfect. Noct is worrying the inside of his cheek as if he’s afraid he’s said the wrong thing, but there is no explaining how his words have pushed Prompto’s turmoil away, how they have left only warmth and gratitude in their wake. So Prompto doesn’t even try to, simply leans forward until his forehead is pressed against Noct’s, their breaths mingling together in the narrow space between their mouths.

“…Thank you, Noct,” Prompto whispers gently, eyes closed. But he opens them again when Noct presses against him, so Prompto can feel the weight of him where their foreheads meet, simple and comforting like their friendship has always been. Prompto’s heart squeezes in his chest, but it’s the good kind.

It’s the best kind.

“I want you to promise me something, though,” Noct says, not moving away, but letting his arm move forward so his hand can hold on to Prompto’s forearm.

“What is it?”

“…Promise me— there won’t be more secrets between us,” Noct does move away then, but only so he can stare into Prompto’s eyes, making sure Prompto understands the severity of that promise. “You don’t have to hide anything from me—from us—anymore. So, if you ever have anything you need to talk about— just reach out. Okay?”

Prompto closes his eyes, letting his head tilt forward slightly so his gaze breaks away from Noct’s. He is very much aware there is still one very big secret between them, one that burns under the wristband of his right arm, a set of black lines against his pale skin. But Prompto is so tired… He can’t unearth more secrets from the depths of his soul, tonight.

He just can’t.

“Mm-hm.”

“Prompto.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine. No more secrets—from now on.”

Noct looks happy with that. He nods, smiles softly at Prompto, and moves to his feet, all in a single, swift movement. But he never once lets go of Prompto’s forearm, so Prompto has no choice but to follow after him, only stumbling for a second before Noct catches him.

“Come on, Mister Not-really-an-Oracle,” Noct says through a smirk, and Prompto thinks Noct is lucky he’s the only one who will ever be allowed to joke about this, because otherwise he would get one of Prompto’s kicks straight to the butt. “Let’s go back to camp. I’m still hungry.”

The night feels warmer now that Prompto feels lighter himself, like he has finally let go of a burden he had grown too accustomed to. So when Noct curls his arm around Prompto’s shoulders to shake him a little, bringing up a laugh from him, Prompto lets himself do the same, curling his arm around Noct’s waist.

The stars twinkle above them as they make their way back to their friends.

For the first time, the gods don’t speak. Only watch.

 

* * *

 

The quest to get Ramuh’s power is stupid, and Gladio lets them know pretty early on.

“Touching trees, Noct,” Gladio says, almost spats, as they run for the next point with thunder cracking over their heads. “ _Trees._ ”

“Why are you telling _me_ this?” Noct complains. His voice sounds broken with his heavy breathing, sweat pooling at his temples.

Iggy was right; they should have extended the rental of their chocobos when they had the chance.

“Who am I supposed to complain to, Highness?”

Noct groans. In the darkness of the storm, he keeps tripping with the rocks in their path, with wet patches of grass, and every stumble makes him lose his patience a little more each time. “I don’t know, maybe the guy who can actually talk to the gods can do _something_ about this?”

“I told you!” Prompto shouts back, indignantly. This really isn’t the first argument they’ve had over this. “It doesn’t work like that! They just scream into my head, they never hear me!”

“Well, then scream louder!”

More thunder, and Prompto feels his patience slip right along with Noctis’. “Ugh, seriously, how many are left!”

Noct looks over his shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips. “Go ask that to the gods, blondie.”

With a grunt, Prompto quickens his pace so he’s running ahead of Noct, suddenly grateful for all the years of training he has at his back. Noct tries to match up, but he can’t, so Prompto starts running backwards just because he can.

Even like that, Prompto is still faster.

“Wait, Noct, I think I’m getting something,” Prompto suddenly says, taking two fingers to his temple and narrowing his eyes in concentration.

In front of him, Noct’s eyes open with surprise. “Wait, really? If it’s not that we’re almost done, I don’t want to hear it.”

“No, wait, it’s important… I can’t seem to get it—“

“Oh my god, Prompto, what is it!”

“They want me… to tell you… to _shut the fuck up!”_

Prompto’s laughter is louder than the thunder overhead, and it gets even louder when Noct tries to chase after him, a curse in the shape of Prompto’s name on his lips. Prompto turns around to escape, still laughing, and soon Noct is laughing with him, from the absurdity of it all, right arm straight in front of him to try and catch his friend.

Prompto lets him catch him in the end, and laughs through the roughhousing that Noctis seems to believe he deserves.

 

* * *

 

When Prompto says ‘jump’, Noct jumps.

It’s that simple.

What _isn’t_ simple, though, is flying a motorcycle kind of thing over the skies of Altissia while holding on to your best friend so he doesn’t fall to his death. The god Leviathan is imposing, almost majestic over them; Prompto wants to look at it forever, and get the hell away from it at the same time.

“I’ll get as close as I can!” Prompto shouts instead, turning the vehicle to the left in a turn sharp enough to make Noct swear, and cling tighter. “Then it’s up to you!”

“You sure you don’t want to sweet talk her before that?”

It is hard to drive this thing, but Prompto still manages to look over his shoulder to send Noct a smirk, mirth dancing in the blue of his eyes. “Then this would be too easy!”

The Leviathan doesn’t seem to want this to be easy, either. Her tail moves, sending jets of water towards Prompto and Noctis, making them turn the vehicle sharply once again. The water not only threatens to throw them off the sky, but it’s making the metal slippery enough for their feet to keep sliding off. It’s only Noct’s quick reflexes that let him grab Prompto when another turn almost sends him flying off the side of the bike.

But it also puts them closer to the Leviathan’s head, close enough for Prompto to see the amber of her eyes. “Noct! Can you reach?”

Noct’s reply is to jump off the bike. Prompto watches him, sees him suspended in mid-air, with one of the royal arms starting to materialize in his hand—and Prompto understands why the gods speak of Noctis the way they do.

“Man, that’s hot,” Prompto whispers when Noct lands on Leviathan’s cheekbone, wind blowing through his clothes.

Then another water jet rises to meet him, and the thought leaves him like sea foam in the wind.

“Prompto!” A voice shouts in his ear, not godlike, but almost. “Where’s Noct?”

“Safely delivered onto Leviathan’s head!” Prompto replies, tapping his earpiece to let his voice carry through. “What about you, Gladio?”

“Holding on. I can’t seem to get through to Iggy, though. I’ll look for him, you make sure Noct doesn’t kill himself!”

“On it, mister!”

It’s easier said than done. Whatever Noct is saying to the Leviathan, she doesn’t like it. Prompto has never actually heard a god insult anyone before, but the Leviathan’s vocabulary is very… colorful. But more than that, she keeps thrashing about, trying to shake Noct off—Noct, who is nothing but a dark spec amongst the enormous body of the goddess.

So it only takes a second for Prompto to lose sight of him.

“Damn it!” He shouts, making the bike turn around. But it’s impossible to see; waves are rising almost to the Leviathan’s head, splashing and flooding everything in their wake. So Prompto has to keep his attention on the bike so as not to fall, trying to keep it away from the worst of the waves.

And that’s when Prompto sees her, tall and beautiful amongst the storm.

“Lady Lunafreya…?”

Something catches her eye, and Lunafreya starts running, away from the edge of the platform she’s on, and away from Prompto. But she must be hurt; she suddenly curls over and falls to her knees, one hand pressed against her chest as the other clings to her trident. The Oracle gasps in pain, to the point of coughing, so Prompto turns the Niff vehicle to get to her side, as fast as he can.

But then Ardyn appears from the mist, there is a glint of silver in his hand—and red blooms over Lunafreya’s white dress like a flower, her eyes open wide as Ardyn drives the dagger deeper into her body.

“No!” Prompto shouts, the single word scratching at the walls of his throat.

He doesn’t so much land the bike as he crashes it against the platform, safely away from Lunafreya, but close enough to reach her in two strides. Prompto’s scared of picking her up, watching the blood spread over her front, but he does so anyway; tenderly, as if she was made of glass. Prompto has never handled something with such care, before.

He presses her against his chest, and her head rolls to his shoulder, even if her eyes are still slightly open.

“Please, hold on, Lady Lunafreya,” Prompto says softly, moving them both so she’s laying on his lap, both of them still on the cold, wet floor of the platform. His arms don’t let her go for a second. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Prompto’s hand hovers over the front of Lunafreya’s dress, there where the dress is torn apart and blood keeps pouring out. It’s a nasty wound, and it’s so horrifying in her small frame that Prompto tastes bile at the back of his throat. But he can do this; if there is a reason for Prompto to have these powers, it _has_ to be this.

So Prompto rests his hand on Lunafreya’s abdomen, lowers his forehead to hers, and starts to chant softly.

“ _Blessed Stars of light and life, deliver us from darkness’ blight—“_

It’s… barely working. The light that emanates from Prompto’s fingers is weak and fleeting, barely doing anything to Lady Lunafreya’s wound. The bleeding does stop, yes, but the gaping wound is still there; dark and mocking against the pale skin of the Oracle’s stomach.

It’s not working, not like it’s supposed to; not like it has before.

_Why isn’t it working—?_

“ _Blessed Stars of light and life—“_ Prompto starts again, pouring all the intent he can muster into his words. The light shines brighter, but there isn’t much a change. No matter what, Prompto is far too weak to heal Lunafreya’s wound. “— _deliver us from darkness’ blight!”_

Prompto repeats the chant, again and again and again. He can feel himself grow lightheaded, his vision swimming, but he doesn’t stop, not even when his hands start to shake violently. Even if he passes out, even if it _kills him—_ Prompto has to bring Lady Lunafreya back.

The world needs its True Oracle. Lunafreya has to _live._

A soft touch to his cheek makes Prompto’s attention snap back from where it had wandered, carried away by the dizzy feeling that consumes him. It’s Lady Lunafreya, now awake enough to be able to press the palm of her soft hand against his cheek. There is a worried look in her soft eyes, one that makes Prompto’s heart move from the confines of his ribcage to lodge itself at the base of his throat.

“I—it’s okay, Lady Lunafreya,” Prompto says softly, words almost slurred with his dizziness. He can barely keep his hand still over her wound. “I won’t… I won’t give up on you.”

Lady Lunafreya’s gaze goes even softer, sweeter. She’s weak, but she still finds it in herself to let her thumb brush against the cluster of freckles over Prompto’s cheekbone.

“…Prompto,” she says, her eyes set on Prompto’s, her mouth curling into a sweet smile.

She remembers. This being of light, of goodness, remembers Prompto’s name despite the years and the horrors she has had to witness. Prompto feels a fondness for her so deep that he can’t help but move her closer, hold her tighter.

And with that burning feeling, Prompto starts to chant again, eyes closed so the tears fall silently from the corners of his eyes.

_“Blessed Stars of light and—“_

“Oh, isn’t this just _great_.”

The blow to his head sends him tumbling down the length of the platform, his arms suddenly cold now that he isn’t holding Lunafreya anymore. Prompto tries to rise his head, look for her, but there is a pounding in his skull that makes him gasp and clutch at his hair, curling in on himself there where he lays as if he can keep the pain at bay like that. It’s like a second heart has taken residence in his brain, but each beat is like daggers through Prompto’s being. His vision swims, and Prompto just can’t concentrate on anything except the pain, the agony.

But then he gets another blow, to his stomach this time, and Prompto finds himself sprawled onto his back while looking up at the Leviathan’s storm, the rushing of the ocean muffled in his ears by the beating in his skull.

“So, so interesting,” a familiar voice says, somewhere above the waves and the wind, and Prompto opens his eyes again to find Ardyn looking down at him with a sardonic smile. There is blood still on his hands —Luna’s blood— but Prompto’s vision is too blurry to notice. “But so tragic at the same time, don’t you think? The puppet with a purpose isn’t strong enough to see it through. What is there sadder than a weak heart?”

Prompto wants to tell him to shut up. He wants to tell him that he doesn’t care he isn’t strong enough, he will force himself to be. He will give up his own life to secure a future for the King of Light and the True Oracle.

He will give himself up for the sake of his friends, if that is what it takes.

But his mouth tastes like blood, and his tongue feels too big for his mouth. Prompto can’t say any of those things, anymore.

“I wish we had more time,” Ardyn whispers, honey sweet. “But I have other plans right now. Don’t worry, though, we’ll see each other again. Until then—“ There is a quick movement, and suddenly Prompto can feel Ardyn’s hand ghosting against the back of his neck, where the skin is tender and weak, and Prompto feels a wave of terror wash over him. “—Don’t ever stop surprising me, Prompto.”

There is no pain when the blow comes. It’s just a breathless instant, his lungs frozen as Prompto struggles to get some air— and then nothing. The world disappears around Prompto, along with the pain and desperation, only to be replaced by darkness.

And silence.

 

* * *

 

The sky is offensively clear for such a sad day.

Lunafreya’s funeral is cold in the way every formality is. There is not a body to cry on, not even a token of her to pay respects to. Still, hundreds, thousands of people appear where she last addressed them, holding white candles of blue fire as the sun goes down and soft music sweeps over the plaza. Everyone wants to say their goodbyes to the girl that gave everything to save the city.

Prompto joins them. A little girl with puffy red eyes gives him a candle, and Prompto lets the wax burn his fingers when he doesn’t manage to pull a smile out of her. The square is packed, but it’s easy for him to move around the people to reach the bottom of the stairs where Luna gave her last speech. That is the difference between Prompto and the rest. The others regard this place as Luna’s last standing point, her last moment before she was taken from them.

For Prompto, that is a platform in the middle of a stormy sea, with his arms growing cold and Lunafreya dying slowly a few feet away.

Silent tears threaten to put the fire of the candle away, so Prompto moves his arms forward to try and save it. He was sure saving Luna was his calling; that he had been given the power of the oracle to _save_ the Oracle. But he hadn’t been strong enough. He simply hadn’t been _enough._

And now, where Lunafreya had stood to talk about the future, there is only a casket: white, and elegant, and empty.

“I’m sorry,” Prompto whispers when he gets to stand in front of the casket, head tilted down so his fringe can hide the tears that slide over his cheeks. “I’m so, so sorry.”

The shaky breath that comes with his sob puts the candle out.

Prompto forces himself to stay by the casket, not for himself, but for Noctis. After all, Noct is missing this, unconscious somewhere far away, his body small and frail in the big bed they have put him in. Prompto has only gone to see him once, in the three days that it’s been since the whole thing happened. The guilt and the pain Prompto feels are far too strong; there is no looking at Noct in the face while knowing he’s failed him and Luna both.

So he doesn’t. Instead, Prompto spends those three days thinking about what else could he have done, what could have been different for him to save Luna. It’s a painful act, but he dwells in the pain. Welcomes it, almost.

It’s better than the guilt he feels, choking him to the point of tears.

Something in his pocket starts vibrating, and Prompto can only be grateful to have remembered to put his phone on silent. There is soft music playing, but otherwise everyone around is keeping a reverent silence. Luna’s death has plunged Altissia into sadness and quietness.

“Gladio?” Prompto asks as he picks up, having read the name on the displayer. He’s away from the crowd now, walking away in no specific direction. “What is it?”

“Noct woke up,” Gladio’s voice sounds tired and worn even through the phone. Things aren’t silent on his side, though. It sounds as if Gladio is out, in the middle of a busy street. “Iggy’s with him.”

“…Oh,” Prompto looks away, as if he’s actually avoiding Gladio’s gaze. He’s happy Noct finally woke up, he _is._ But also— “I—How are they doing?”

“As bad as you can expect,” Gladio says with a sigh, followed by a groan. “That idiot doesn’t—“

Gladio cuts himself before he can finish the thought, and Prompto doesn’t ask about it. They’re all a mess, and things only got worse as the days went on and Noct didn’t open his eyes. It seems that him waking up wasn’t going to change things much. “It’s okay, big guy,” Prompto says softly, turning around at the next corner to walk back to Noct’s side. “I’ll be right there.”

“…Thanks, Prompto. I’ll be right there, too.”

The walk to the hotel is too short. Prompto can’t even find the time to come up with what to say to Noct. What could he say, anyway? ‘Sorry I wasn’t strong enough to save your fiancée’? ‘Sorry I failed you, again and again’?

‘Sorry I can’t be for you what I want to be’?

All of them are true, and none of them feel like they’re enough. Prompto wants his feelings to reach Noct—but even so, what if Noct doesn’t want anything to do with them?

Why would Noct want him, now that he has proven how useless he is?

Prompto needs more time, but he doesn’t stall. He crosses the lobby and takes the elevator, the fact that there is still electricity in the city after everything a little blessing. His feet carry him directly towards Noct’s room despite the fact that it’s been almost three whole days since he was last here.

When he gets to the door he knocks, and waits with baited breath until Ignis’ soft voice lets him in from the inside.

The room is dark, the curtains pulled shut over the windows. But there is a small lamp turned on on the nightstand, so Prompto’s eyes fall on the bed first thing. On the bed, and on Noct, who is sitting on the bed with his hair ruffled and the covers pooling around his hips.

Their eyes meet, and don’t let go. There are tears still clinging to Noct’s dark eyelashes, a faint outline of red around the corners of his eyes. He’s pale as a ghost, but his lips are worried dark from biting down on them. It took Prompto ten minutes to reach the hotel after Gladio’s call, but something tells Prompto Noct has been awake for far longer than that.

It breaks Prompto’s heart. He should have been here for Noct, instead of wallowing in his own feelings.

He’s failed him, all over again.

“Noct—“ Prompto starts, not even sure of what he’s going to say. But Noct looks away, a sharp movement of his eyes, and Prompto’s heart skips a painful beat.

 _So I was right,_ Prompto says, also looking away. _This is the last straw._

“Prompto. Thank goodness you’re alright.”

Ignis’ sweet voice makes another wave of guilt wash anew through Prompto. Ignis is here, of course he is, but Prompto hadn’t even thought to look for him. He’s sitting on one of the armchairs, face tilted slightly too far to the left as both his hands cling to a cane that Prompto immediately hated the first time he saw Iggy with it. The worst of his scar is hidden by the sunglasses and the darkness in the room, but Prompto’s eyes still fix on it, unable to look away.

And here is proof number one hundred that Prompto doesn’t deserve the friends he has. He’s abandoned Iggy at his lowest moment.

Left him alone to deliver all the horrible news to Noct.

“Iggy, I’m—“ Prompto starts, but Ignis shakes his head.

“It’s alright, Prompto. I hope you found some peace while you were away.”

‘ _Absolutely none, Iggy,’_ Prompto wants to say, but this isn’t his place to complain, nor his time. ‘ _I hate this place, and it’s choking me.’_

Instead of saying any of that, Prompto walks to Ignis, until the side of the armchair bumps against his thighs. Noct is still looking away, so going to him isn’t an option. He knows his best friend enough to know when not to push.

But also, he wants to be with Ignis now. Maybe he’s failed these past few days, but that doesn’t mean he can’t start making things better from now on.

As long as they allow him to, that is.

“How are you doing, Iggy?” Prompto asks, leaning his hands on the armrests so his face is at the same level as Ignis’. “Your vision…?”

“I’m—doing better,” Ignis replies with a slow nod. “But my vision hasn’t returned yet, I’m afraid.”

Prompto nods too, heart sinking. He had expected as much, but getting the confirmation still cuts deep, makes him bleed darker. Ignis doesn’t deserve this. None of them deserve this. And meanwhile here is Prompto, with the power to speak with the gods, to heal wounds, and still completely powerless.

It’s not fair.

None of it is fair.

‘ _It was never your calling to save the Oracle,’_ a voice says within Prompto, soft and gentle and somehow familiar, and the words make Prompto go tense. ‘ _But that doesn’t mean you cannot help your friends.’_

Prompto blinks as the voice fades away, leaving him empty and with a chill in his bones. If that were true… If he could really use this accurst power of his to make his friends happy—

“Prompto,” Ignis says sharply, one hand raised in the general direction of Prompto. He must have felt the change in Prompto’s body. “Are you quite alright?”

Prompto licks his own lips, heart beating fast. If he can only do this one thing right. “Iggy…” Prompto starts, voice shaky. “Can I try something on you?”

“…What?”

“Just…” the voice is gone from Prompto’s head, but the echo still remains. It promises something Prompto has been begging for for a long time. “—Trust me, I guess?”

Prompto doesn’t actually expect Ignis to trust him. He’s almost ready to throw himself at Ignis and _try_ , so eager he is to do _something_ , but there is actually no need. Ignis sits in silence for a while longer, eyes lost into nothingness but actually not that off from Prompto’s own—and then nods, slow but certain, no trace of hesitation in the movement.

“Alright,” Ignis says simply.

As if he hasn’t just ignited a hopeful fire in Prompto’s heart.

With shaking fingers, Prompto reaches carefully to take Ignis’ glasses off. The wound underneath takes Prompto’s breath away; it’s jagged and half-healed at some places, taught with new skin in others. Prompto almost wants to touch it, that side of him that is all about experiencing things first hand, through skin against skin, instead of his other senses.

And he does. Just, instead of lightly running his fingers over the scars, Prompto lays the palms of his hands over the sides of Ignis’ face, so the tips of his fingers graze his temples and the heels of his hands rest over Ignis’ cheekbones. His thumbs, awkwardly hovering in mid-air, finally find a resting place against Ignis’ soft eyelids, barely pressing into the skin at all. Prompto keeps the touch gentle and soft; Ignis could move away at any moment if he so wished.

“…Here goes nothing,” Prompto whispers, and closes his eyes.

 _Please,_ Prompto begs softly to himself, as his mouth moves around the prayer he so well knows by now. _Please, just let us have this. Don’t fail me now._

The insides of his own eyelids turn golden as Prompto finishes his prayer, and he opens his eyes slowly, only to gasp at the sight that awaits him.

 _It’s working._ Prompto watches, mesmerized, as his hands heal Ignis’ scars to the point that it looks like the skin was never broken in the first place, smooth skin stitching itself together into perfect patches around Ignis’ eyes. And all of that happens under Prompto’s fingers, under that beautiful golden light that starts to disappear when there is nothing to heal anymore. Prompto stares, hands on Ignis’ cheeks even when there is no reason to keep them there. He allows himself to be the first one to touch that new skin, the perfect shape of his eyebrows, the soft tickle of his short eyelashes.

Prompto did it.

He’s healed Ignis.

“Um,” Prompto mutters as he finally pulls his hands away, unable to look away. He can feel the usual exhaustion settling in his bones, after summoning the healing magic, but right now it’s mostly hidden by the excitement he feels. The excitement turns to nervousness when Ignis’ eyelids start to flutter open, though. “Ah, give yourself a few days, maybe? I don’t know if I was able to get your sight back, or if it’ll even come back at all, so maybe—“

“Prompto,” Ignis suddenly interrupts him, voice slightly off like Prompto has never heard it before. But his eyes are fixed onto Prompto’s, right into the color blue, right into Prompto’s _soul—_ and Prompto feels a hand squeeze his chest with the force of the gods. “I can see you.”

“Oh my god,” Prompto says, rocking onto the balls of his feet. “I did it.”

“You did it,” Ignis replies, sounding as amazed as Prompto feels. He’s touching the place where the wound has been for the past three days, looking surprised when all he does is find smooth skin. “You healed my vision.”

“I did it! Oh gods, I did it, Noct did you see tha—!”

Prompto’s words and excitement die within himself the moment he meets Noct’s eyes. Not because his friend is looking at him with a difficult expression, but because one look at him, and Prompto remembers everything. Remembers what has happened, what they have lost. What Noct has lost, and will never get back.

It’s like a slap to Prompto’s face, one that gets rid of his smile and his excitement — making the guilt come back with a vengeance.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save Lady Lunafreya, Noct,” Prompto says in a low voice, lowering his gaze to the ground. “I tried. I swear I tried. But I—I wasn’t enough to do that.”

Noctis says nothing. His hand is fisting the sheets that pool around him, and his mouth is slightly open as if he’s about to speak, but never says one word. The silence cuts Prompto’s skin open like knives, but he lets it go on for a little longer, bleeding, as he waits for Noct to say something.

When he doesn’t, Prompto nods. A small miracle isn’t enough to erase a tragedy.

“I’m gonna get us some dinner,” Prompto suddenly says, practically running to the door. “Iggy needs to rest, and I’m sure Gladio will be happy to have some cup noddles, so maybe I’ll get that—“

“Prompto.”

Prompto’s hand is on the doorknob, door already open, when he turns back. Ignis has lifted from the armchair, cane forgotten to the side. He’s not wearing his glasses yet, but his eyes seem luminous and focused in the faint darkness of the room.

“Yeah, Iggy?”

“…Thank you. Really, thank you.”

Prompto makes sure his smile is as genuine as it can be before closing the door at his back.

 

* * *

 

The train has empty cabins, with plush cushions to sink into and big windows to let your gaze wander, so it’s no wonder Prompto finds himself alone in one of them, enjoying the silence.

He’s not one to do such a thing. Prompto wants people around, always. He wants to leech off their warmth, of their conversation, and make them laugh in exchange. If Prompto could choose, he would never spend a minute alone, because it’s never been his choice before.

But there is tension now, between his friends, and Prompto hates it more than the loneliness. He hates the awkward silences, and the heavy glances. Hates it when Noct forces himself into that part of his mind that is secluded from the rest of the world, or when Gladio starts to complain about it colorfully, uncaring of being heard. He hates it when Ignis pretends to be too engrossed in the reading of his journal to put some peace among the others.

Mainly, Prompto hates that he’s the only one trying to make things better.

So after Gladio pushes his face away with his hand and Noct storms off the car, Prompto goes to find himself some peace. He’s tried to linger about with the other passengers, but it turns out that anxiety and dark themes aren’t just exclusive to Prompto’s group. There are talks of the Empire, and MTs taking whole cities, or demons spawning out of nowhere. So Prompto leaves all of that as behind as he can, pretending the snowy mountains that he can start to see in the distance are the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. He never takes his eyes off them.

That is, until the door to the cabin slides open, and Noct pushes himself through with a relief sigh.

“Hey,” Noct says softly, closing the door behind himself. Prompto sits straight in his cushioned bench, spine rigid.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, aiming for sounding welcoming. He has no idea if he manages it. “You okay?”

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Noct admits, sounding only a tad accusing. “You make yourself hard to find when you want to.”

“Hehe, you know me! Stealthy as a cat.”

Noct doesn’t quite smile at that, but almost. Prompto watches, heart beating fast, as the corner of Noct’s mouth twitches upwards, the foundations of an actual smile. But it all crumbles down a second later, just as Noct lets himself fall on the bench opposite to Prompto’s. Their feet touch in the space between them, ankle against ankle, through their boots.

“…You mind if I stay with you?”

“Of course not,” Prompto says, and he means it. Just knowing that Noct had been looking for him is enough to make him feel warmer. “Stay as much as you want.”

Noct leans more weight into the point where their ankles meet, and Prompto responds in kind. The silence that settles between them then is tender and easy, nothing like the ones their group has been sharing recently-

So Prompto hates to break it, but pushes himself to do it nonetheless.

“Hey…” Prompto starts without looking at Noctis, but he can see his friend turn from the window to look at him from the corner of his eye. “Look, this—This is probably the last thing you want to hear right now, but I have to say it, Noct. I’m sorry I couldn’t save Lady Lunafreya. Gods, I’m—I’m so sorry, Noct.”

Noct’s reply takes longer to come. His hand flies to his mouth, pressing the back of it against his lips. His eyes are clouded, which makes Prompto await his answer with baited breath.

So when it comes, it’s not what Prompto was expecting at all. “…You weren’t the one who failed to save her, Prom,” Noctis says, setting Prompto’s heart into overdrive when he finally looks at him in the eye. “It was me. You shouldn’t have even been there in the first place.”

“But—“

“Prom. You didn’t fail us. Actually, you—you gave us time.”

Prompto’s heart skips a beat, his shoulders going even tenser. “What?"

Noct pushes a hand through his own hair. “She… she would have died on that platform if it wasn’t for you. But you healed her enough that she was able to come to me, to help me. We got to say goodbye…” something in Noct’s look lets Prompto know he won’t give details of that, but that’s fine with Prompto. Just the idea that he gave them a bit of what they needed is enough. “That is something I will never be able to thank you enough, Prom.”

Prompto swallows thickly around nothing. Noct’s words are sweet, but… “—But it’s not fair.”

“No,” Noct replies, sounding defeated and sad at the same time. “It’s not.”

“…It should have been me.”

The words tumble out of Prompto’s mouth, and Prompto regrets them a second later. They’re part of a thought that has been swirling around Prompto’s chest for days, growing thicker and darker as tension piled up on his back. But it’s not something you tell your best friend, no matter how much it hurts.

Because then that hurt is reflected in Noct’s eyes, and the sight is one of the worst things Prompto has ever seen.

“…What?” Noct snaps, expression crumbling. He almost looks—betrayed, as he leans forward with his hands on his knees, his arms completely tense. “You don’t mean that.”

“…I do,” Prompto replies, because there’s no use in hiding it anymore, or lying about it. “I—I grew up knowing that I was a fake, the bootleg version of someone destined to do great things. I always wondered what use there was to give me these powers if a person like that existed already. But when Luna fell…”

“…You thought your powers were meant to save her.”

Prompto nods, looking there where the hem of Noct’s pants has riddled up his boot, and a sliver of creamy skin peeks through the black. “It should have been me,” Prompto says again, and his nails dig into the cushions of the bench. “It should have been me bleeding on that platform, and it should have been her sitting here with you. _Alive._ The King of Light and the True Oracle, like it was always me—“

Noct launches forward so fast it almost looks like he warps, fingers twisted around the collar of Prompto’s waistcoat to the point that Noctis’ knuckles go white. The force of it sends them both rolling down, and the floor of the cabin rushes up to meet Prompto painfully, first his shoulder, then the back of his head. A soft whimper leaves his mouth, but it’s not enough to make Noctis release him, or stop him from setting his weight on Prompto’s abdomen, and keep him down.

“Noct—!”

“ _Shut up!”_ Noctis shouts, voice strained and broken. “Don’t you _dare_ say something like that again, you hear me!”

Prompto goes rigid under Noctis, his palms flush against the carpeted floor. Above him, Noct looks devastated. It’s learning about Insomnia and the King all over again, the pain and desperation clear in Noct’s features as he struggles with the geyser of emotions. Prompto opens his mouth to say something, anything that will get rid of such expression—but Noctis’ fingers tighten in Prompto’s collar, and Prompto can do nothing but gape up at Noct’s pale face.

At those night sky eyes brimming with stars.

“Do you even know how it _feels—_ “ Noct starts, voice harsh and rough. “—to hear your best friend say something like that? That he wishes he was dead?”

Prompto winces, swallowing past the knot in his throat. “Noct—“

“I just lost _Luna—“_ Noct’s hands shake along with his voice; all of him shakes, really, as if saying her name takes something physical from him. Her name is holy in Noct’s mouth, and they both burn at the sound of it. “And now you want me to think about losing you too?”

This is wrong. This is all kinds of wrong. He had never wanted Noct to feel like this, not at his words; he had just wanted to let Noct know that he _understood_. That he knew Luna’s role was bigger than anything else, bigger than Prompto. And that Prompto was fine with it, had been for a long time.

But his meaning had been lost in translation at some point, and now Noct trembles as he lowers his forehead to Prompto’s collarbone.

“I can barely hold on, Prompto,” Noct whispers against Prompto’s skin, wet and ragged the way only a sob can be. “Losing you now would _kill_ me—”

Noct’s voice cuts with a strangled sound, and Prompto can’t take it anymore. His arms rise to curl around his best friend, bringing him down completely onto his chest and simply clinging to him, to the back of Noct’s jacket, to the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. He makes sure his touch is careful, almost tender, but when Noct makes that sound again Prompto can’t help but hold on tighter. It’s like he wants to push Noct into the safe space of his ribcage, where Prompto can make sure nothing hurts him again.

“Sorry,” Prompto whispers, mouth pressed against Noct’s temple. He leaves a shaky kiss there, and then another, a firmer press of his lips against his skin. “Sorry, Noct, I’m here. I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. The gods know I’m gonna be clinging to you until the end of time, you can’t get rid of me that easily, bud.”

He’s babbling. Over him, Noct nods, so his hair tickles the tender skin of Prompto’s neck, but he doesn’t move back. He’s flat over Prompto’s body, and heavy; but Prompto doesn’t move away, either.

They lay on the floor of the cabin for a long while, Prompto’s hand drawing circles on Noct’s back while his other hand plays with his hair, Noct simply holding on to his collar for dear life and breathing wetly against his neck.

So when Noct finally does move back, Prompto’s arms are so used to staying around him that they just follow the movement, holding Noct still within reach as Prompto’s hand keeps playing with Noct’s hair.

Noct’s eyes are red, his lashes matted, but there are no traces of tears on his cheeks.

“Say it again,” Noct asks, practically orders.

Prompto doesn’t need to ask what he means.

“I’m not going anywhere, Noct,” Prompto whispers, pulling Noct back down just the tiniest inch. “Ever.”

When Noct kisses him, it doesn’t come as a surprise. Prompto breathes in sharply, but it’s only at the sensation of Noct’s lips easily molding against his own, filling the gaps that Prompto’s confession has left for him. The kiss is more rough than tender, but it’s beautiful in its desperation. And when Noct licks the outline of his bottom lip, making them both shudder, Prompto opens up to him with the same easiness that has always been between them. As if this is just a natural continuation of the path they’ve always been following.

As if they were always meant to end here, kissing each other on the worn carpet of a train’s cabin.

Prompto feels like he’s going to melt, or explode, or anything that will end with his bones turned to embers. No one’s ever clung to him like Noctis is doing now. No one has ever shown him that they need him this way, as if letting go would be worse than simply dying. Noct clings to him with his whole body—with his fingers and his body weight and with his mouth—, and Prompto can only reply in kind, marveled at how well Noct fits into the space between his legs, how grounding and familiar the weight of him feels on every inch of his body. That’s when Noct’s hands slip back, towards Prompto’s neck, to entwine his fingers behind his head and tilt Prompto’s chin up. It’s a small change, but it allows Noct to deepen the kiss, to kiss Prompto like he’s only ever imagined himself being kissed before—and Prompto just kisses back through the mist that is being wanted like this, desperate to show Noct how much he needs him, too.

How much he wants him.

But they are in a train’s cabin, on the probably not very clean floor, and while Prompto doesn’t want this to stop, he knows it probably should. Prompto kisses a trail up Noct’s jaw, slow but firm, and Noct shivers again but for an entirely different reason, angling his head to let Prompto reach the shell of his ear.

“You know, Noct,” Prompto whispers against Noct’s lobe, letting his teeth graze the tender skin. “This is kind of _king-ky—“_

It’s a horrible joke, but Noct bursts out laughing, the sound wet and shaky but completely real. Prompto feels it reverberate in his chest, changing the pattern of Prompto’s heartbeat until it beats solely for and because of Noct. A second later, Prompto joins him in his laughter, now both of them clinging to each other as if the literal grip will help them find the metaphorical one. It hurts to breathe while laughing _and_ supporting a whole body’s weight on your abdomen, but Prompto doesn’t want to stop.

He can’t remember when it was the last time they laughed together like this.

“I hate you so much,” Noct declares as he moves up onto the palms of his hands, looking down at Prompto with so many emotions in his eyes that, for a moment, Prompto feels choked up. “Who even—who even jokes after a kiss like that?”

“ _Me,_ duh,” Prompto replies, even if his cheeks are heating up at hearing his best friend say the word ‘kiss’. He’s twenty years old, and he has more experience with sex than what he cares to admit, and _still_ hearing Noct say ‘kiss’ is enough to turn him into a blushy school girl. It’s embarrassing. “I think you fried every coherent thought in my brain, buddy.”

Now is Noct’s turn to blush, turning his head to hide the rosy color behind his hair. “Shut up.”

They only get as far as sitting on the floor when they finally move, backs resting on the wall that has the window. They’re not as tangled anymore, but Noct makes sure Prompto’s hand doesn’t escape from his, and Prompto lets it happen. He doesn’t want to let go, anyway, and the warmth of Noct’s skin is a nice reminder that he didn’t imagine all this. That it was really Noct who made his lips tingle like this, almost to the point of hurting. That it was Prompto himself who turned Noct’s hair into an actual chocobo butt; that it was Prompto the one to put a blush on those frighteningly pale cheeks of Noct’s.

Nevermind that it was Prompto who had made them go that pale in the first place.

“I want to kiss you again,” Prompto admits. “Maybe not on this dirty floor, thank you very much, but I really, really want to do it again.”

Noct’s blush goes fiery red, but his hand squeezes Prompto’s, like he’s agreeing with him. “Maybe… Maybe once we reach Gralea…”

Prompto’s eyes flash with mirth. “Room for two?”

Noct’s elbow to Prompto’s ribs is unsurprising, and it only makes Prompto laugh. He squeezes Noct’s hand back to let him know he’s joking though, because he’s nice like that.

But then Noct says. “You did promise to stay with me. So maybe.”

And Prompto feels a rivaling blush to Noct’s own ignite in his cheeks, down to his neck. “…Of course, Noct. Ever at your side.”

 

* * *

 

Later, when the wind screams against Prompto’s ears and Noctis pushes him off the train, there is only one thought that lingers in Prompto’s head, before everything turns dark.

_This makes much more sense._

 

* * *

 

Aranea is beautiful, and badass, and Prompto thinks that, if his heart didn’t feel so heavy and broken, he could fall in love with her.

The vending machines at the Nif base are nothing fancy. The word Ebony is written in bold letters on every side of it, and unsurprisingly, that’s almost everything they have inside. Prompto grabs one, thinking of Iggy as he opens the can and the familiar smell reaches him, but forbidding himself from thinking about Noct just now.

He pays for Aranea’s water bottle. It doesn’t feel like enough.

“Have you made up your mind?” Aranea asks softly, inspecting the cap of her bottle. Prompto knows she’s been looking at him for a while, has felt her gaze at the back of his neck. He almost wants to look back at her, but the can in his hands feels too much like home to look away.

“…About some things, yeah,” Prompto nods, swiping his gloved thumbs over the metal. “Not about others, though.”

“You mean the oracle thing?”

Prompto winces. “I’m not an oracle.”

“Says who,” Aranea rolls her eyes, arms crossed over her chest now, and Prompto turns to dedicate her a bewildered stare. “You need to stop believing in what others tell you, kid, and start forming your own ideas.”

Under his cap, Prompto shakes his head. The cold of the base chills his bones, even through the layers of clothing that fight to keep him warm. “That’s different—“

“Think about it this way. You were created in a lab—“ Prompto flinches at that. He can’t help it. “—but you’re human. Are you not?”

“…I am,” Prompto says after a beat, hand rising to fist the material of his coat, right over his chest. It’s taken a long time to say that out loud and believe it, but he’s there now. No matter what the barcode in his wrist says. “I’m human.”

“You were born with the powers of the oracle, but you were never trained as one. So what does that make you?”

The answer takes longer to come. But, when it does, it sounds just as sure as his previous answer had. “Me,” Prompto says, and his gaze is clear when he lifts it up towards Aranea. “That makes me _me.”_

It’s the correct answer. Aranea smiles, an elegant curl to her mouth, and drops her own gloved hand on top of Prompto’s covered head. “Maybe you’re not _The_ oracle, Prompto, but that doesn’t mean you’re nothing. You have those powers for a reason. Just make sure you make that reason your own.”

Prompto nods, a fire ignited within his chest. He has too much to thank Aranea for.

He just hopes he has the opportunity to do so, someday.

 

* * *

 

Ardyn falls like a shadow on him near Gralea. Prompto’s so close, he thinks he can see the blue sparks of Noct’s wrapping in the distance.

But that’s all they are in the end: blue lights in the distance.

Always out of Prompto’s reach.

 

* * *

 

There are lights dancing in the darkness behind Prompto’s eyelids. They’re fast and trembling, like fireflies, Just, Prompto doesn’t think he’s ever heard fireflies _walk_ before, almost run.

Or that he has ever heard fireflies shout his name, equal parts horrified and relieved.

“Prompto!”

Noct. He would recognize that voice anywhere, even when half out of it from pain and dehydration; even while hallucinating about fireflies.

Prompto’s arms hurt, but they hurt even more when he’s let off from the cross. He can feel needles pierce through the tips of his fingers as his blood finally, finally reaches his hands, chasing away the pallor that had settled in his chin. The movement of falling to his knees hurts like hell to, but Prompto only allows himself a soft whimper, a breathless gasp.

Because his friends are back around him, asking hurriedly if he’s hurt, if he’s alright; and Prompto doesn’t want to miss a second of their beautiful voices.

“I’m fine,” he says in the end, because none of them will calm down until he says so. Noct’s arms slip away slowly, if only to let Ignis move in closer, inspect the bruises and cuts on Prompto’s face. His gloved fingers are soft and careful, but it’s impossible to avoid the spike of pain that comes with the touch.

“Sorry,” Ignis whispers. It’s the most apologetic Prompto has ever heard him. “His pupils are dilated, and he looks exhausted. His wounds aren’t too bad, but he’s badly bruised. He needs to rest.”

“No,” Prompto shakes his head, and the whole room swims. “I—“

“We passed some rooms on the way over,” Gladio intervenes, already looking out of Prompto’s prison and down the hall. “Maybe we can—“

“Noct,” Prompto says suddenly, loud enough for all of them to hear him. Prompto knows he should feel bad about it, but he doesn’t. He’s far too tired to do anything but what his brain dictates. “…Were you worried about me?”

“…Of course I was. What kind of question is that?”

Noct sounds hurt, but when Prompto looks at him he just looks guilty. Prompto wants to pull him closer, touch the worried lines of his face.

But instead he moves onto his feet as he speaks; as he tells Noct that everything’s okay.

Noct doesn’t listen. Instead, he steps closer does exactly what Prompto had wanted: he curls his arms around Prompto, and hugs him so that it’s him supporting most of Prompto’s weight, letting lean onto his side.

“Can you heal yourself?” Noct asks softly, peering into Prompto’s eyes through locks of matted hair.

Prompto knows he can heal the bruises of his skin. The cuts in his heart though, those only can be healed by Noct and the others.

 

* * *

 

At the front of a locked door, Prompto confesses his last secret.

Noct looks hurt; maybe he remembers the promise Prompto made, what feels like forever ago. The one Prompto broke as soon as he made it.

But Noct’s teasing is light and loving, and when he knocks his knuckles against Prompto’s chest, the touch lingers. So does the soft look in his eyes.

His friends urge him forward to walk along with them.

And Prompto doesn’t hesitate anymore.

 

* * *

 

They rest for a bit in one of those rooms with bed bunks they had seen while running around, and Prompto has never felt comfier in a rock solid mattress before.

Even just sitting down feels like glory. It’s then that Noct finds them a private moment to talk, both of them sitting on the same mattress with their backs to each other. It’s fitting, Prompto thinks. No matter how bad he wants to see Noct’s face right now.

He can’t help it; Prompto lets himself fall onto his side, head on the pillow. It smells of rust and dust, but Prompto’s memory helps with the disgusting scent. The softness under his cheek takes him back to Noct’s apartment, to many a night sleeping in Noct’s couch, with a pillow that smelled of shampoo, softener, and Noct’s cologne.

He misses those scents. Prompto misses home.

But then the mattress dips again, and home suddenly feels closer than ever. He’s still laying on his side when Noct lays with him, chest pressed against Prompto’s back and arm curling around his waist.

Prompto’s heart skips a beat. Noct hasn’t worn cologne in a very long time, but the scent that is just him remains. And Prompto can’t get enough.

“I know this isn’t an hotel room in Gralea,” Noct starts, voice soft but slightly teasing. “But at least it’s better than the dirty floor of the train?”

Prompto doesn’t even try to stop himself. He snorts against the pillow, shaking his head as Noctis’ grip on him tightens. “Seriously buddy, why are we so caught up on the fact that we made out on a dirty floor?”

“Well, it was a pretty disgusting floor, alright?”

Laughter bubbles out of Prompto’s mouth now, clean and pure. A second later, Noctis joins him, but his laughter is more subdued. Still, Prompto feels him laugh straight through his body, from the soft puffs of hair against his neck to the vibrations of his ribcage against Prompto’s back. It’s a beautiful sensation, and it makes Prompto realize this is reality.

Beautiful, brutal reality.

“You’re such a prince,” Prompto jokes back, lifting his arm to cover Noctis’, there over his waist. “What, do I have to prepare a bed full of rose petals next time I want to stick my tongue in your mouth?”

“Prompto for the love of god,” Prompto can hear Noct’s wince in his voice, and that only makes Prompto smile wilder. “Do you really have to put it like that?”

“What, should I wax poetry about the taste of your mouth and the feel of your—?”

“You can just shut up and pretend we never started this conversation!”

Prompto laughs again, but lets it go. It feels incredible to be like this again, to feel the easy banter between the both of them. If Prompto closes his eyes, he can almost feel like they’re back in Insomnia, in Noct’s apartment, stomachs full of snacks and the tv playing the latest game’s menu song. Of course, they never cuddled like this back then, but it’s a nice add-on.

Behind him, Noct presses himself closer. They’re as alone as they can be, a rare private moment, and although Prompto is equally happy to see all of his friends, he’s also glad to have this moment with Noct.

It makes the happiness he feels feel real.

“Hey,” Noct whispers against Prompto’s nape, nose nuzzling the hair at the back of his head. “I’m—sorry.”

“For what?” Prompto asks back, voice strangled. His hand is still over Noct’s, so he feels it clench against his hip, right before Noct speaks again.

“For falling into Ardyn’s trap,” Noct explains, lowly, brokenly. “And—for hurting you like that.”

Prompto snorts, but it’s more for show than anything else. “I know, right?” He starts, summoning the banter from before. “How could you possibly do such a horrible thing? After everything we’ve been through? After you kissed me senseless while sprawled on top of me?” Noct goes rigid at that, and Prompto makes sure to brush his thumb over his knuckles to let him know he’s joking. “It’s okay, Noct. Really.”

“I just—“ Noctis starts, clinging even tighter if it’s possible. Prompto clings back as much as he can, given their positions. “I need you to know that I don’t care, Prom. About the barcode on your wrist, or the voices in your head. All of that is okay by me.”

“…But why?”

“…For the same reason you never cared I was a prince, I guess,” Noctis says, and the smile in his voice makes Prompto want to turn around, see it with his eyes, taste it with his mouth.

So he does exactly that. Prompto turns around, quickly sliding his arms under Noctis’ as Noct himself hugs him tighter against his chest. They’re touching everywhere, from collarbones to their knees, there in that godawful Nif base. Prompto doesn’t want to ever move.

“Hey, Noct,” Prompto says, letting his nose brush against Noctis’. “Can I stick my tongue in your mouth now?”

“For fucks sake, Prom—!”

Whatever Noctis had been about to say dies in Prompto’s lips. The kiss has nothing to do with the one on the train; this one starts rushed, but calms down into something softer, tender, something that aligns with the gentle touches of their hands and their soft whispers. Noctis’ hands find their way to hold Prompto’s flushed face, touch so gentle that not a single spike of pain rises up to meet Prompto. So Prompto smiles into the kiss and touches Noct back, marveling at the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt, and the sounds usually-stoic Noct can make.

When it comes to an end, their foreheads come together as they try to regain their breath, hands never leaving each others’ skin. There is a soft blush over Noctis’ cheeks, and Prompto feels his skin heat up in response.

It’s funny, how he had never realized he couldn’t live without kissing Noctis until he did it for the first time.

“Definitely not a hotel room in Gralea,” Prompto whispers. His hands are toying with the hem of Noctis’ shirt, making the blush in his cheeks go darker. “But I think we can make it work?”

“…The others think we need privacy to make up,” Noctis nods, letting his hands travel to the small of Prompto's back. “They won’t come until we let them in.”

“Oh, yes. We need _lots_ of time. We’re _so_ mad at each other…”

The last thing Prompto sees before Noctis kisses him again is his smirk, teasing and wonderful.

The third kiss has nothing to do with the other two, either.

Prompto is starting to think no kiss will be the same with Noctis, and he loves it.

 

* * *

 

When they finally make it to the Crystal, only Ardyn stands before it.

His smile is infuriating, but Prompto is too busy looking for Noct to care. His heart is beating so fast, he almost doesn’t hear it when Ardyn starts to explain what happened. How Noct was labeled the Chosen King, and then absorbed by the Crystal. How he disappeared among the sharp edges, black on refulgent blue.

How there is no way to know when he will come back, or if he will at all.

Gladio is the first to attack. Ardyn falls to his knees without a sound, but immediately makes to rise up, as if Gladio’s broadsword was nothing but a mild inconvenience.

Prompto fires, once, before Ardyn can get to his feet.

Then he fires the whole chamber on Ardyn’s back, and although it feels good, it does nothing to extinguish the agony Prompto feels in his chest.

 

* * *

 

Gentiana finds him among the darkness of the eternal night, three years after Noctis disappears.

The first sign of her arrival is the cold. Prompto is used to it — he’s starting to forget the warmth of the sun, actually, now that it never comes up anymore —, used to the bite of frost on his skin. But this cold is different; it slides past his thick clothes and into his bones, chilling his marrow and making his teeth clack.

Prompto sighs, breath turned to mist in front of his eyes.

When he turns, Gentiana is behind him, a pacific expression on her never changing face. Prompto almost drops the monkey wrench he’s holding — he’s been in Hammerhead for the last few days, trying to fix Cid’s old radio (Cindy is amazing, but she loses patience with anything that doesn’t have a purring engine). Gentiana looks eery under the bright, artificial lights, her black hair catching the glow and turning it almost blue. It’s a blue Prompto knows well, one that he hasn’t forgotten.

The electric blue light that surrounds Gentiana is the blue of Noct’s Armiger, and that alone makes Prompto’s breath catch in his chest.

“…Lady Gentiana,” Prompto nods slowly, rising to his feet. He feels—underdressed, in her presence, hands covered in the oil he had been using to unscrew the old screws of the radio. He feels almost unworthy, too, but that is a more familiar feeling. “W-what can I do for you today?”

Gentiana doesn’t reply immediately. She simply observes him, until Prompto feels the need to start fidgeting, to change his weight from one foot to the other. He had never been in her presence so directly before, and he’s starting to wish that had remained the same.

The wish only gets stronger when she finally speaks, voice leveled but brutal.

“You have been ignoring the voices of the gods,” Gentiana says, hands clasped before her. She doesn’t say it accusingly, but that’s exactly how Prompto hears it. He turns back to the radio as soon as her words register in his brain, his back towards her.

“The gods have been ignoring me all my life,” Prompto replies, bitter and cutting like he’s never been before. Three years in the darkness don’t sound like much, but they are. They are. “Maybe they should get some of their own medicine.”

“It is not the gods’ calling to listen to the wishes of the mortals,” Gentiana explains, ever so patiently. “It is the mortals who shall listen.“

“The Oracle is dead” Prompto shakes his head, sadness seizing his heart. He’s tweaking the cables of the radio now, not really doing anything with them, but it helps to keep his eyes away from Gentiana. “There is no one left to listen, anymore.”

“There is you. There is always been you.”

“Me…” Prompto sighs again. Gentiana’s cold aura has eased, but his breath still comes out in a white mist. “What good am I?” Prompto shakes his head again, looking at the radio through tearful eyes. “Luna is dead, and Noct is gone, and I’m here without being able to do a thing.”

Gentiana steps closer. She doesn’t touch him, but Prompto can still feel a colder gust of wind against his cheek, like the caress of a cool hand. He turns to look at her, over his shoulder, and is surprised when she finds her eyes open and fixed on him. “The truth is, young oracle, that you always expected your calling to come along with your friends’. You always forgot that your life is long; there is no need to find a purpose before you have started truly living.”

“I…” Prompto blinks, heart skipping a beat. “What?”

“Should you have listened to the voice of the gods, you would have heard the prophecy of Bahamut,” Gentiana explains, moving away. As if moved by puppet strings, Prompto follows her, rising to his feet and walking a few steps behind her. “The prophecy of the Chosen King.”

“Noct…” the knot in Prompto’s throat becomes tighter. “What is it? Is he okay? Is he—?”

“He is not coming back just yet. He still needs time.”

Prompto knew as much; but there is a part of Prompto that clings to that ‘yet’, with a passion and fire that he hasn’t felt in three years. He clings, and he hates himself for it, but he can’t help it. Having faith in Noctis is as natural for him as the blue of his own eyes. “Then…?”

Gentiana waits once again. It isn’t hesitation, but more like she’s observing Prompto, seeing something he can’t begin to comprehend. Then her eyes close, and when she speaks again, her voice is like those Prompto hears in his head most days, deep and old like the earth he walks on,

It is the voice of a goddess.

“ _Only by the True King’s hand can the immortal Accursed be banished and the Light restored to the world. With a power greater than even that of the Six, purifying all by the Light go the Crystal and the glaives of rulers past. Only at the throne can the Chose receive it, and only at the cost of a life: his own._ ”

Shiva’s voice dies down, and Gentiana looks at Prompto expectantly, but with that same calm expression she always wears. Prompto ignores it all, though. His head is full of the goddess’ words, the prophecy of Bahamut. It has been spoken in the language of gods, he has understood it—

And still, he doesn’t want to believe it.

“You’re kidding,” Prompto says, blinking at the goddess with big, terrified eyes. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“I am not, young oracle,” Gentiana replies calmly, once again speaking the language of men. “The Chosen King will reclaim his throne, and he will bring the light back for mankind with a power above that of the Six. But for that—“

“For that—“ Prompto snaps, uncaring of the fact that he has just interrupted a goddess. “—Noct has to die.”

Gentiana’s voice doesn’t change when she says: “Yes.”

Prompto wants to scream. He wants to yank at his head, kick Cid’s radio to the ground. He wants to tell Gentiana to leave him alone, to scream at the Astrals to get out of his head. He’s tired. He’s done.

He’s done with the gods and their _bullshit._

“All this time,” Prompto starts, trembling there where he stands. “All this time, you’ve made me listen to your ramblings—only to have me watch Noct die? _”_

“The gods—“

“The gods know _nothing!”_ Prompto shouts. “The gods don’t _care!_ Why is Noct’s calling to die? Because of his blood? Because of his lineage? He never chose any of it!”

“ _The King of Kings shall be granted the power to banish the darkness—“_ Shiva continues, eyes closed. As if she doesn’t care about the trembling of Prompto’s hands, or the tension in his jaw.

“Stop it,” Prompto snaps, almost _begs_. He doesn’t want to hear anymore.

He doesn’t want to know someday Noct will come back, only to leave for good.

But Shiva is relentless, and her voice digs deep into Prompto’s head, like ice shards cutting through skin. “ _—but the blood price must be paid. To cast out the Usurper and usher in dawn’s light will cost the life of the Cho—“_

_“No.”_

The word is venom in Prompto’s mouth. He spats it out, feeling it burn his palate, erode the back of his teeth. It comes out in the language Prompto never learned but always knew, anyway.

Prompto was never meant to be the oracle. And because of that, he doesn’t simply listen to the spiel of the gods.

He speaks back, and makes himself be heard.

“… _No?”_ Shiva replies, her eyes refulgent behind her thin, pale eyelids.

“ _I refuse._ I won’t lose Noct again.”

Prompto shivers when the cold around him becomes unforgiving. Gentiana doesn’t move, but her presence grows tenfold, almost suffocating Prompto there where he stands. And still, he refuses to bend. He’s so tired of giving in to the caprices of the gods.

“So you are willing to condemn the whole world for a single man?”

At that, Prompto smiles sardonically. “I always have, Lady Gentiana.”

“…Good.”

“—Huh?”

Gentiana moves swiftly over the pavement, the ends of her tunic leaving a thin layer of frost. She walks past Prompto without another look, but Prompto turns to keep his eyes on her, his heart beating fast. Something has changed in the goddess; something that almost makes something akin to hope spark in Prompto’s chest.

“The Chosen King shall go back to the throne, and banish the Accursed,” Gentiana explains calmly, not even turning to look at Prompto over her shoulder. Her black hair falls like a curtain between her and Prompto. “The blood price will be paid. But should the Oracle stand by his side at the moment of truth…”

As Gentiana’s voice is carried by the cold wind, Prompto looks down at his hand, illuminated by the artificial lights of Hammerhead. His skin is covered by oil and frost, but underneath there are the scars born from battling in the darkness for three long years. There’s the roughness where the butt of his gun always dug, and the feint burn marks that the barrel left during his first days of training. And then, underneath it all, the feeling of a warm controller in a familiar room, the weight of his high school bag in his palm, the texture of Noctis’ hair running through his fingers.

The coldness of a metal can in a Nif base as Aranea speaks: “ _Maybe you’re not_ The _oracle, Prompto, but that doesn’t mean you’re nothing. You have those powers for a reason. Just make sure you make that reason your own.”_

“You have been waiting for your calling for years, Prompto Argentum,” Gentiana says. “The question is, will you answer it now?”

Prompto inhales, closing his hand into a fist. Maybe he isn’t the Oracle.

But for Noct, he will be anything.

When he gives the first step towards Gentiana, the frost under his boots melts.

 

* * *

 

The victory fanfare from an old video game Prompto hasn’t played in ages wakes him up in the middle of the night, and Prompto groans against the pillow.

It’s not unusual for him to be awakened rudely in the middle of his night. When there is no way to track the time anymore, no way to tell when is sleep time or awake time, humans simply invent their own time. Which isn’t half that bad —Prompto sure loves to be able to sleep whenever he needs to—, but sometimes, the schedules of two people don’t align, and Prompto finds himself blindly pawing around his bedside table for his phone, which keeps blasting that old tune, at what should be his 4am.

He wonders, briefly, if he shouldn’t start to put his phone in silent when he goes to sleep.

“Kweh?” Prompto croaks into the receiver, hiding beneath the covers once the phone is pressed against his ear. A soft voice laughs at the other end, but Prompto is already falling back into the realm of sleep, where a nice dream of Chocobos ready to snuggle up to him awaits him.

The voice has to call his name twice, before Prompto reemerges. “Mister Prompto?”

“I’m awake, I’m awake!” Prompto mutters into his pillow, groaning softly. He forces himself to lay on his back at least, with the phone still in his hand. Sleep clings to the corners of his eyes though, so he speaks with his lids closed and into the empty darkness of his room “What is it?”

“This is Talcott, sir. I’m sorry to have woken you, but I believe this is important.”

Ah. Sweet, young Talcott, whom Prompto adores like a baby brother. Just—not right now. Not at his 4am. “Is it? Enough to wake me up in the middle of my nice Chocobo dream?”

“You tell me,” is the reply reaches Prompto’s ears, and the one that makes Prompto’s eyes snap open, and sit on the middle of his mattress, back straight. That is _not_ Talcott’s voice. “Am I bothering you too much, Prom _?”_

The teasing goes straight through Prompto’s head, but the familiarity of it anchors itself in Prompto’s heart. It can’t be. It can’t— “…Noct? Is that you?”

“It’s what I was trying to tell you, sir,” Talcott says through Prompto’s phone, once again laughing softly. He sounds giddy and happy now, in Prompto’s suddenly alert ears. “King Noctis has returned to us.”

“Let me talk to him,” Prompto asks in a rush, his free hand clinging to the covers over his legs.

There is a soft sound, and then Noct’s even softer voice, sounding too far away from the receiver. “Tell him he can talk to me in person.”

“Ah, Mister Prompto, King Noctis says—“

“Don’t you dare. Let me talk to him! Noctis!”

More rustling through the line, and the absence of words stretches for so long that Prompto worries he’s never going to hear that voice again. That it is some twisted joke someone is pulling on him. That Noctis isn’t really back.

But then, that soft, almost embarrassed laugh. And a moment later: “Impatient as ever. Right, Prom?”

Prompto lets himself fall back against his pillows, eyes closed but phone pressed firmly against his cheek. “You made me wait ten years, you jerk. I think I deserve to be impatient now.”

“…Prom, I—“

“Tell me this isn’t a dream,” Prompto asks, almost begs. “Please. I swear, if I blink and this turns out to be a dream—“

“You’ll know for sure soon,” Noctis promises. His voice sounds small and quiet, as if he was trying to go unheard, and Prompto wonders just how much privacy he has right now. Where he is. “I’m on my way to Hammerhead. Think you can get out of bed enough to see me?”

Prompto can’t help it; he laughs, warm and innocent, the way he hasn’t in a very, very long time. “Noct—” Prompto starts, but suddenly the name gets stuck in Prompto’s throat, in his chest. He’s said the name out loud many times, during the past years; sometimes, because the conversation required it. Other times, because Prompto needed to remember the sound of it, the shape of it in his lips. But now, now that Noct is back, Prompto finds that he must have been saying it wrong, these past ten years. Because saying his best friend’s name out loud has never brought him such happiness as it does right now. “Noctis,” Prompto repeats, because he can. “Noctis…“

“I’m here, Prompto,” Noct replies, as if he understands. His voice is soft, and it breaks at Prompto’s name before returning to the previous tone. His voice sounds huskier, Prompto realizes, more than it did in their twenties. “Hey, can you call the others for me?”

Prompto lets out a long breath, feeling his lungs move for what feels to be the first time in a long while. The others. Gods, they’re going to be so happy, too… “Yeah. Yeah I—can do that.”

“Thanks… Ah, I guess I’ll see you soon?”

Prompto swallows, the beating of his heart loud in the silence of his room. He wants to keep Noct in the line, wants to hear his voice through his old, battered phone until he can have him in front of him again, close enough to touch. But he really needs to call the others, let them know Noct has returned.

He has waited ten years for this.

He can wait a couple of hours.

“See you soon, buddy,” Prompto whispers, and forces himself to end the call.

After a few minutes to collect himself, Prompto calls Ignis. He doesn’t even have to pull up the contact anymore; the fact that they don’t hang around together much these days means they all have to rely on their phones to check on each other, none of them allowed to let three missed calls go by without a reply. Gladio is the worst of them all about their check ins, but he’s always apologetic after worrying them.

That’s why Prompto doesn’t even try Gladio, and goes directly to Ignis.

“Prompto,” Ignis replies at the third ring, voice composed as ever. Beyond the greeting, Prompto can hear the familiar sounds of grunting and iron against the skin of a monster—something with horns, Prompto would bet. You never forget how the sound of ivory being stuck by iron reverberates in the ears. “Are you alright?”

Somehow, Prompto’s heart is beating faster now than it did while he spoke with Noctis. Everything is starting to sink in — _Noct is back, we’ll see him soon_ —, while his friends battle monsters gods know where. Prompto is laying in an empty bed in a dark room, Ignis is fighting, Gladio is gods know where—

And the King of Light, the King of Kings is—

“Prompto!”

“Noct’s back,” Prompto blurts out, breathless. The sounds of battle seem to stop at the other end, and Prompto takes in a shaky breath. “Noct’s back, Iggy.”

“When?” Ignis asks. He, too, sounds breathless. “How?”

“He just—called me,” it sounds crazy, Prompto is just realizing. Too crazy after ten long years. “I think Talcott found him, or something. They’re on their way to Hammerhead. Noct asked me to call you and Gladio.”

“So you spoke to him…”

“Y-yeah. It was him, Iggy.”

“Iggy!” The shout comes from Ignis’ end of the call, loud and exasperated. “A bit of help here?”

Prompto blinks. “Is that Gladio?”

“Yes, we—we met for a short hunt, but… Hammerhead, you said?”

Prompto nods before remembering that this is a phone call, and hence Ignis can’t see him. “Yeah. Are you coming?”

“Of course we are,” is Ignis’ prompt reply. “We’ll be there soon—If the Dualhorn doesn’t end Gladio first.”

A truthful smile curls the corners of Prompto’s mouth, softly but sweetly. “Be careful. It’ll be a waste to die now!”

“Indeed. We will be seeing you soon, Prompto.”

Even once the call is over, Prompto can’t shake the feeling that this is the happiest he’s heard Ignis sound in a decade.

He understands the feeling.

 

* * *

 

Noct arrives to the three of them waiting for him already, somehow. He’s—older, obviously, but still just the same. He’s all sharp angles now, a jaw to die for hidden under a bristly, dark beard, his eyes and mouth surrounded by lines that seem out of place, even in a thirty-year-old body. Even the line of his shoulders is different now: something heavier clings onto them now, something beyond the sadness of losing a father, and a friend, and a home. Something far heavier than the weight of a crown.

It only takes one look at him for Prompto to know that Noct knows.

He has heard the prophecy of Bahamut, as well.

But, unlike Prompto, he has accepted it.

“Took you long enough,” Gladio mutters through his teeth, pressing Noct against his side, the first of them all. Noct smiles back, sweet and easy, and when he returns the half hug with too much strength, no one says anything.

His eyes are still the same. That same night-sky hue in the blue of his eyes, the stars that seem to dance beneath his dark eyelashes. Noct has seen things Prompto can’t begin to comprehend, these past ten years—but they haven’t been enough to change Noct’s heart. If anything, they’ve made it stronger.

Iggy pulls Noctis into a full embrace, arms tight around him as Ignis presses his cheek against Noct’s temple. It’s almost intimate, the way they hold each other, and Prompto almost wants to look away. He wants to give them the privacy they deserve, the one that they _all_ deserve. It’s good to be all back together, like this, but each one of them has loved Noctis in a different way, and showing it in front of the others is strange.

Or so Prompto says to himself, when he’s finally stepping forward to pull Noct closer by the shoulders, when all he wants is to press him closer by the hips.

“Welcome back,” Prompto whispers, and congratulates himself when he doesn’t deliver the words against Noctis’ skin.

Noct moves back, something akin to surprise dancing in his eyes. His look is searching, and Prompto wants nothing more than to give Noct whatever he asks of him. They promised to not keep secrets between them anymore, once upon a time. Prompto is willing to hold on to that promise now.

But there is no need. Prompto had only needed one look to know Noctis knew of Bahamut’s prophecy.

It only takes Noctis a look and a shaky smile to know the same thing.

“…Who told you?” Noctis asks a while later, as the embers of the campfire start to shine their last few flames. Gladio and Ignis are softly asleep nearby, having refused to go into the tent without the others, but too tired after their hunt and their trip to Hammerhead to keep themselves awake. Noct had snorted, but he had also assured them that they could sleep if they wanted.

‘ _I’m not going anywhere just yet,’_ Noct had said, meaning to sound reassuring; but it’s not a secret shared between Prompto and Noctis anymore, but a fate shared between all four of them now. Noctis will die at the throne of the Citadel, because the gods have asked for it to be like so.

And the idea of that fate being set in stone was enough to keep Gladio and Ignis awake for longer than they should have.

But they finally fall asleep, and because the sun doesn’t rise anymore, Prompto feels like he still has the chill of the whole night to keep destiny at bay. Things will start to move again once the sun rises, Prompto’s body tells him. It’s a decade-old habit, an old feeling.

But tonight, Prompto clings to that feeling with tooth and nail.

“Lady Gentiana,” Prompto replies to Noct’s earlier question. They are each sitting on their own camping chairs, but their feet rest together before them, ankle against ankle. The pinpricks of a numb leg are starting to tickle at his toes, the underside of his knee, but Prompto doesn’t move from the contact. “She came to me, three years after you disappeared. It wasn’t a fun conversation, I’ll tell you that.”

“I can relate,” Noct replies with a sigh.

“Like, next time they could just invite us to tea and pastries, maybe? No need for more prophecies, we’ve had our nice share of them.”

“…You’re not mad,” Noctis realizes after a long look, eyebrows arching in surprise. Prompto understands where that comes from. He’s sprawled on his camping chair, with half a can of Ebony dangling from his fingers as he jokes about the Astrals giving them prophecies about Noct’s death with a smile over his teeth.

In retrospect, it’s even a bit morbid.

But— “I’m actually furious, Noct,” Prompto admits, turning to look at his best friend with his heart in his eyes, and Noct’s expression crumbles from surprise to heartbreak. “I just got you back. And just because the gods say so, I have to give you up again. Don’t you think it’s fucked up? When everything we’ve been doing was to fix their mistakes?”

Noct looks away with a flinch. Prompto can see the agreement on the corner of Noctis’ mouth, in the way his shoulders tense under his kingly cape. Many things have changed about Noct, from the size of his body to the garments that hang from his shoulders—but he’s as easy for Prompto to read as ever.

This isn’t Noctis Lucis Caelum, King of Lucis, King of Kings.

This is just Noct, Prompto’s best friend.

So when Noct speaks again, Prompto can hear the way Noct hides the truth behind another truth, voice only wavering a little as he turns to look at Prompto once again. “We still have time.”

“We should have had ten years,” is what Prompto replies, shaking his head. And then he sighs. “Sorry, buddy. I guess I’m not making this easier for you, am I?”

“It’s okay,” Noct replies, but he seems distracted. Prompto understands why a second later, when Noct moves. He reaches forward under Prompto’s curious eyes, their fast heartbeats the soundtrack for the moment as Noctis grabs a hold of Prompto’s hand and turns it up, so he can thread their fingers together. Noct’s thumb brushes against the back of Prompto’s hand, almost hesitantly.“Is…this okay?”

Prompto’s eyes snap back to Noct’s, a frown between them. “Why wouldn’t it?”

“Because we should have had ten years,” Noct replies with a sigh, angling his body away but not letting go of Prompto’s hand. “But instead we got a few kisses, a decade of silence, and an awkward reunion. So I can’t help but wonder… if this is— _still_ okay?”

There is a defiant look in Noct’s eyes. Prompto wonders, briefly, what is Noct daring Prompto to do. Deny that their reunion was awkward? Move his hand away, push _Noct_ away?

Prompto hopes he isn’t. He doesn’t like to lose dares.

Bringing Noct closer is easier than it should have been. Prompto’s hand still feels like it was made to cup Noctis’ cheek, his fingers to run through the strands of longer, slightly rougher hair. The scars that litter through Prompto’s palm, those that Noctis wasn’t around to see when they appeared on his skin, don’t even pull at the rest of his hand with the movement, like they always do. Prompto feels every inch of Noct’s jaw, of the coarse hairs of his beard.

They stop, just shy of letting their mouths meet. “You’ve changed,” Noct says, but he sounds more amused than anything else. His cold fingers rise to touch the small patch of hair right on Prompto’s chin.

Prompto grins back, nudging the tip of his nose against Noct’s. “You looked at yourself in a mirror recently, buddy? The years have gone by for all of us.”

“I try not to. It’s… weird.”

Noct says so with a sad tone to his voice, not exactly sadness, but it’s enough to tug at Prompto’s heartstrings. So Prompto lets his other hand rise as well to cup Noctis’ cheek, so he’s holding Noct between his palms, thumbs pressing softly against the shadows under his eyes.

“Maybe,” Prompto starts softly. “But you’re still beautiful, Noct. Hot as hell, too.”

The deep blush that covers Noct’s cheeks pulls a laugh out of Prompto, too loud for the quietness of the campsite.

So it’s only natural for Noctis to reach forward and shut him up with a kiss, rough but longing as only a kiss can be after ten years of separation.

 

* * *

 

“Just so you know,” Gladio starts when they’re all awake, there where he stands by Ignis’ elbow, helping him cook breakfast without really looking at the other two. “I’m happy for you guys, but if I wake up to Prompto moaning his throat out one more time, I’m going to deck you both in that place you guys seem to love so much. So keep it in your pants, okay?”

“…Yes, Gladio.”

 

* * *

 

As they walk through the streets of fallen Insomnia, Prompto can’t help but point out all the places he used to go to, more than a decade ago. There is the small (now completely empty and destroyed) pet shop where the owner would let Prompto spend uncountable hours with the puppies and the kittens. There is the coffee shop that made that carrot cake even Noct would have liked, if only Prompto had pushed him to try it (there is dried blood on the shards of the window, dark against the pastel colors of the paintwork in the interior). They turn a corner, and suddenly the arcade is there, like that last time he raced Noct (but it’s foreboding, now, without all the lights and sounds Prompto always remembers when he thinks of the place). Prompto knows, without even looking, that if he were to run down a few streets, he would find his own home waiting for him, dark and alone like always.

For the first time in his life, Prompto is glad his house is so far away from the Citadel.

It means he doesn’t have to walk past, and see what remains.

These are all places that made up Prompto’s life, at one point. Places he loved, places that were simply familiar, to the bus stop to school from the candy shop he always stopped at on his way back home. They made of Insomnia Prompto’s home, way before his home became three people and a car.

And seeing it in shambles, without all its marvel and pride, but plagued with demons and monsters instead—

A hand clasps his shoulder just as the first tears start to prickle in his eyes, and Prompto blinks rapidly to get rid of them before turning.

“Are you alright, Prompto?” Ignis asks softly without letting go. Ahead, Noct and Gladio walk briskly, their backs tense as they inspect the area with sharp eyes.

They shouldn’t let them get too far away from them. “Of course, Iggy!” Prompto declares, summoning the most real smile he can do at the moment. “I just—I never thought coming back home would feel like this.”

Ignis’ hand tightens over the shoulder piece of Prompto’s armor. “I understand.”

And maybe he does; because as they walk to catch up to the others, Ignis clings to Prompto’s shoulder just a bit tighter.

Just a bit more desperately.

Ardyn awaits by the gates of the Citadel, all theatricality and drama. Prompto feels his gun materialize in his hand almost before he commands it, and he raises the barrel to aim. He closes his eye, and he finds his target; Ardyn’s chest, framed by the rear sight of his gun, and cut in half by the front one.

He could shoot. It would take them nowhere, but Astrals, it would feel fucking nice. Then everything happens at once; Ardyn picks at Noct’s patience, his laughter ricochets around the silent city—and King Regis’ ward rises up around the Citadel, so familiar that Prompto sees Noct’s knees shake in the corners of his vision, his hands curling tightly into fists.

Prompto knows, deep in his heart, that they have to bring the ward down. They need to reach the other side, yes, and daemons are pilling up behind them, trapping them against the ward with no way out. But there is another meaning to this ward, something that feels almost _sacrilegious._ This is Noct’s dad’s power, keeping Noct away from his home, from his destiny. Where King Regis was always supportive of his son’s choices where it mattered, Ardyn has twisted the late king’s resolve into something awful, something that has to be piercing at Noct’s heart like a thousand daggers.

It angers Prompto more than he expected. Here is Noct, ready to give everything away, but having to face every bit of hurt and anguish from his past in new, painful ways.

It’s unfair, and Prompto feels a surge of fury at the thought of Noct suffering more than he has to.

The emotion is so strong actually, so mind-blowing, that when Luna appears before them with her angelic face and soft smile, Prompto isn’t even surprised.

Just relieved.

“Luna…” Noct whispers reverently, giving one step forward. It’s then that Prompto remembers it hasn’t really been ten years for Noct, since Luna died. So Prompto stays back, letting Luna’s eyes move to their King as sadness pulls at the corners of her eyes.

The sharp edges of her trident glimmer under the light that seems to shine directly from her; for a moment, Luna looks like an actual goddess.

But then she turns—not towards Noct, not towards the barrier, not even towards the monsters coming towards them. She turns towards Prompto, hand raised towards him in a gesture that can only be interpreted in one way.

‘ _Join me.’_

Prompto lifts his chin and walks to her, his footsteps loud in the sudden silence around them.

“Prom…?”

Luna’s hand is warm but fleeting under Prompto’s. It’s not exactly like touching something physical; Prompto could close his eyes, and he would feel Luna’s hand against his palm. But if he were to put a little bit more of strength behind the touch—if he were to look for the grasp of her fingers, curl his own tightly around the back of Luna’s hand—the touch would dissolve into nothingness, and Prompto would find himself grasping for nothing but thin air.

So he keeps the contact light, no matter how much he wants to squeeze her hand when their eyes finally meet.

“I won’t let you down this time,” Prompto whispers, a heartfelt promise.

The smile Luna gives him is the same as she did back at the platform, when her blood coated Prompto’s hands.

“Gods above, hear our plea—“ she starts, voice leveled and certain, and Prompto closes his eyes before joining her, voice as clear as hers. “ _—Lend the Chosen King your strength. That he may save our Star from darkness’ blight.”_

The light grows stronger as their words dissipate in Insomnia’s night sky, and suddenly Gentiana is there, collected as ever.

“The Oracles’ words have reached the heavens,” she proclaims, a somewhat sufficient smile gracing her thin lips. “By their will, and the grace of the gods, a path for the King is made.”

The attacks of the remaining gods against the Citadel’s ward make the earth rumble and shake. Prompto hears their ire in their voices, their conviction that Noctis _will_ sit on Lucis’ throne. They strike, again and again, bringing with them powers that would have made Prompto crumble down onto his knees years ago. And with them, they tear down the wards like a curtain falling off a birdcage, like silk crumbling into the ground as light shards rain on them, before disappearing.

The world stands at an absolute standstill; and then, somewhere, a clock starts ticking again.

The gods dissolve into the air, their duty fulfilled. Even Gentiana is gone, only a slight chill left in her wake. But Luna remains, and when Prompto moves his gaze towards her, he’s unsurprised to find her looking at Noctis with a longing look in her pretty eyes.

Prompto smiles, and his fingers make to cling to her hand tighter. He stops himself before he goes too far, but the movement is enough to make Luna look back at him.

“I said I wouldn’t fail you again, right?” Prompto says with a big smile, and Luna blinks up at him. “Noct! Come over here?”

Noct walks closer with a dazed expression, as if in a dream. Prompto expects him to be looking at Luna, but he’s actually looking at them _both;_ the light of the gods shines in his dark eyes, and his mouth falls open as he walks slowly towards them. But already lifting his hand, as if to reach them faster.

Prompto’s heart squeezes in his chest. He wants to tell Noct to hurry, because Luna is already fading—but Prompto made a promise. With a soft laugh, Prompto reaches inside himself for his powers and, as light shines there where his hand meets Luna’s, he wills for the gods to give them just one more moment, one more goodbye.

 _‘They deserve it,’_ Prompto thinks defiantly towards the gods. _‘Don’t take this away from them, too.’_

Noct reaches them, and Luna stays, looking up at Noct with the sweetest smile Prompto has ever seen in any human being. It’s easy, so very easy for Prompto to take Noct’s hand, and put Luna’s in his. Prompto holds the back of Noct’s for a moment, a gentle squeeze to tell him to be careful, and then Prompto lets go.

Luna stays, smiles, and Prompto’s magic makes her strong enough to allow Noct to pull her closer by the hand and embrace her. Her light bathes the sharp angles of Noct’s face, putting even more stars in his eyes before he closes them with a shudder.

“Luna,” Noct whispers against the skin of her shoulder. He looks so old and so young at the same time… “Thank you…”

Luna holds him tighter for a second, and then moves back, Noct moving along with her. Prompto doesn’t dare to look at her face; there is enough emotion in Noct’s to make Prompto’s heart skip several beats. He knows he wouldn’t be able to hold the tears if he saw that same emotion mirrored in Luna’s gentle face.

“The fate of our Star rests with you now,” Luna says softly, lifting a hand to let it trail over Noctis’s cheek. “ _Noct_ …”

A blink, and Luna’s light dissolves into the night sky along with the gods’, leaving Noct’s arms empty once again.

Silence falls between them, but Prompto wouldn’t be able to describe what kind of silence it is. He still has his face angled down, even once Luna is gone, even once there is no need to give his friends privacy anymore. Beside him, Noct shivers under his cape, a choked sob catching on the walls of his throat and barely making it past his lips.

Prompto wants to say something, anything. But he can’t find the words.

“…Noct—“

Noctis moves so fast he could have just warped, throwing his arms around Prompto with the same desperation he had done before with Luna. They are tight around Prompto’s waist, tight enough to hurt, but the idea of pushing Noct away doesn’t even cross Prompto’s mind. Instead, he curls his arms around Noct’s shoulders and presses him closer, hiding his face in the familiar scent and texture of Noct’s long hair.

“Prom,” Noct whispers, voice full of emotion. “Prompto, I—“

“Shh,” the smile that parts Prompto’s lips is real and luminous amidst the darkness. “There had to be a reason for me to have these powers, right? And hey, summoning the gods like that was cool, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?”

Noct snorts against Prompto’s neck, and when he shakes his head, his hair tickles Prompto’s chin. “Yeah. Pretty cool, Prom.”

“Fucking amazing, I would say,” Gladio says as he comes closer, dropping a hand on Noct’s back hard enough to make Noct look up. “Don’t take all the merit, though. Lunafreya helped you out big time, too.”

“Well, of course,” Ignis adds, and Prompto feels his cold fingers ghost against the skin of his wrist. “But two Oracles… _That_ is also pretty, uh. Cool.”

Prompto laughs lowly. It feels good, to laugh now. To find motives to laugh even now, at the end of all things. “Come on,” Prompto finally says after one last squeeze at Noct’s shoulders, stepping away.

“Yeah,” Noct adds. His eyes are even more fierce now, burning deep with passion and conviction. “It’s time.”

 

* * *

 

“Off my throne, Jester,” Noct growls, and the three of them, Gladio Ignis and Prompto, step closer to him. Guarding Noct’s back.

“The King sits there.”

 

* * *

 

They don’t get to see it, in the end.

It’s almost as if they aren’t even there.

There is a burst of light, and that is the last thing Prompto sees. The light burns at his eyes, at his chest, and he can’t muffle a scream as that light engulfs him, and bites at his skin with white flames.

When he wakes up, it’s over.

“Noct!” Ignis shouts, the first to react. Prompto hears the echo of Ignis’ footsteps as he runs in the marble floors, and that’s when Prompto realizes he has his cheek pressed against the ground. He doesn’t even remember falling in the first place. “Noct!”

Prompto doesn’t want to look up. He knows what he’ll find at the throne. Gentiana had told him in the past, explained in that cryptic way so usual in the gods. But Prompto had gotten good at reading between the lines, and at some point, he had pictured it enough to have nightmares about it.

Every single night for seven years, nightmares.

When Prompto looks up, he’s not surprised to see his nightmares have finally come true.

Noct sits on the throne, slumped in a way that reminds Prompto of his friend back in high school. His legs are slightly apart, his head lolled to the side as if sleeping.

But he’s not sleeping. There is blood in the golden pieces of his armor, his eyes are still slightly open but sightless, staring off into a path that Prompto and the others cannot see yet.

And the sword of his father protrudes from his chest, coated in red blood to the very hilt.

Prompto’s seen it thousands of times in his dreams, Noct’s death at the end of the endless night. And still, he can’t stop the anguished scream that comes from his very core, his teeth biting into his cheek so hard that the skin breaks, and Prompto tastes blood anew.

“Noct!” It’s Gladio shouting, this time, stumbling onto his knees by the feet of his King. His big hands tilt Noct’s face up, but Noct’s eyes still don’t catch onto anything. A trail of blood falls from the corner of Noct’s mouth to Gladio’s thumb, but nothing else changes. “Fuck…”

Prompto rises to his feet. At the bottom of the stairs, Gentiana refuses to meet his gaze. It is probably bad luck, to walk past a god like Prompto is right now, but he doesn’t care.

Nothing about this moment, Prompto thinks as he mounts the stairs one by one, has to do about luck.

At the top, Prompto’s heart breaks. It seems unbelievable, for the useless thing to still be able to break, but it does. One look at Noct, at his broken body and his no-longer-there smile, and Prompto _crumbles._ There is no divine power to make him take one more step, to make him forget the sight of his best friend dead in the throne that was always meant to be his tombstone. Prompto’s tears fall over his unshaven cheeks, catch on the soft hairs at his jaw, only to drop somewhere among Noct’s blood, that already flows beyond the first couple of steps.

The sword through Noct’s chest is a grotesque sight, one that Prompto can’t take his eyes away from.

But there is something else there, half obscured by the tall back of the throne. It flickers in and out of Prompto’s blurry vision, like the blue sparks of the Armiger. The glimpses Prompto gets of the figure bring a sense of pressure through Prompto’s heart, as if he was meant to do something.

Prompto looks up, only to meet the eyes of King Regis over the head of his dead son.

 _Please,_ King Regis begs, the language of the gods rolling easily off his tongue.

And it’s all it takes, really, for Prompto to snap out of it. In the end, every nightmare is still a dream, no matter how real it feels. Prompto knows, with certainty, that the fear and the anguish will follow him once this is over, and that he will never be able to forget today for the rest of his life.

But every nightmare is, at its core, a dream.

And the first thing to put an end to it is to wake up.

He needs both his hands wrapped around the hilt of the sword to get a sure grip on it. The weapon rattles under his touch, and Noct’s lifeless body rattles with it, like a puppet on loose strings. It’s enough to make Ignis and Gladio look up in horror as their cheeks go ashen pale.

“Prompto, don’t—!”

“The fuck you think—!”

It’s too late. The weapon is massive, but Prompto isn’t a lanky kid anymore. He holds onto it tight, breathes in— and with a forceful movement he pulls it out of his best friend’s heart, an arc of blood droplets rising in the air with the movement. The tip of the sword falls onto the marble with an echoing sound, tracing a red line over the white. Then Prompto lets go of the sword completely, and the sound is deafening.

The gaping wound is like a black hole. It seems to suck everything around it towards an endless, pitch black abyss, a mix of blood, gore, and fabric shreds making a faint attempt to delimit the edges of the wound. It seems to suck Prompto in for a long second as well, as dark blood continues to calmly flow out of it now that there is no beating heart to push it out. It’s horrible. It’s a nightmare.

Behind the throne, King Regis makes an anguished sound; the sound of a dying father.

_Please._

Prompto falls before his King first one knee, then the other. He’s distantly aware of Gladio and Ignis shouting, making to grab at him and hold him, or push him away, Prompto isn’t sure. But Prompto isn’t paying them any mind, either. He’s looking up, meeting Noct’s sightless eyes there where his head has lolled forward, and his black hair falls like a curtain around him.

Even in death, Noct is beautiful enough to take Prompto’s breath away.

But Prompto always preferred him smiling at him, warm and perfect.

And by his side.

“ _Blessed Stars of light and life_ —“ Prompto starts softly, not even grazing Noct’s wound with his fingers. He doesn’t need to, anymore, not after seven of years of training under Shiva’s most complacent look. Prompto only needs to keep his eyes on Noctis’, for as long as it takes, and let the need to have him back burn through his veins like liquid fire. “— _deliver us from darkness’ blight.”_

The light that shines around them is golden and pure. But this light doesn’t hurt the eyes, doesn’t make Prompto squint away from Noct’s. Instead, it’s like a warm comforter thrown over shivering shoulders, like a favorite song starting to play unexpectedly on a silent, rainy day. It’s the symbol of change, from every insecurity, every degrading through Prompto has ever had towards himself, every moment where he has hated what he is—to hope. To conviction.

This is Prompto Argentum’s calling; this is the fake oracle, rising up to bring his King back from the dead.

All it takes is the space between the heartbeats of a broken heart.

And then Noctis, King of Kings, gasps in a breath as dawn breaks outside the walls of the Citadel.

 

* * *

 

Insomnia rose, once, and then it fell.

There is no doubt it will rise again.

Humans have the tendency to build upon the foundations of past civilizations. There is history buried under the paved streets of Insomnia, more so than in the books that litter the dark corners of the destroyed Citadel. Prompto likes that idea; using what remains of old times, the strongest bits, to build something more robust, something a tiny step closer to perfection.

They will learn from this, too. They will take the strongest foundations, the unshakeable truths of this age of darkness, and Lucis will shine again on Eos under the rule of a new King.

A new King, no longer guided by the gods of the heavens. Because their voices have gone silent for anyone that might hear them, letting humans make their own choices from now on.

Prompto really, really likes the idea.

And with every new dawn he observes from the high steps of the Citadel, he likes it even more.

“Can’t sleep?” A soft voice asks behind Prompto, and while he does smile at it, he doesn’t turn just yet. He lets the slow, uneven footsteps get closer, instead, lets the newcomer reach him so they’re standing side by side at the light of a new day.

Prompto had known he had missed the sun, but he hadn’t realized just how much until the first lights of the morning dyed the skies pink once again.

“Should you be out of bed?” Prompto asks back instead of replying, finally looking at his side.

Noct still looks pale and tired, but dawn seems to like to paint soft pastel colors onto his skin. There is a lot of skin showing, actually, more than a king probably should display. But bandages and healing wounds take priority over regal clothes, so Noct more often than not walks around what remains of the Citadel in soft, royal black clothes that hung from his shoulders and pool at his ankles. Prompto has the slight suspicion Noct keeps stealing clothes from all his friends, and that’s why they never seem to quite fit him anymore, but no one has the heart to call him out on it.

Just seeing Noct around is enough to make them all feel grateful. To feel blessed.

“That should be my line,” Noct says with a smile of his own. “Iggy said you need bedrest. He also said you’ve been sleeping more than fifteen hours a day.”

The thing is, Iggy hasn’t been lying. It is one thing to heal wounds, and another entirely to bring someone back _from death_. Prompto had been training for years for this, gaining strength as he learned to trust and rely on the powers he once despised, but still the whole ordeal had taken a big toll on him.

If he had attempted to do this ten years ago, Prompto would have died along with Noct, just for trying.

“I will listen to your health advice when you stop leaning so heavily on that cane, _Your Majesty_.”

Prompto _has_ brought Noct back from the dead, but he hadn’t been able to stay conscious long enough to heal his body completely. There were wounds, non-fatal ones, but deep wounds nonetheless, still scattered over Noct’s body. Prompto had offered to heal them a moment after waking up, but Noct had refused.

He had his own strong foundations to built on, now.

The King of Lucis wouldn’t let himself forget, either.

“It’s just, you know,” Noct starts with a shrug. “Sentimentality.”

Prompto doesn’t buy it for a second. “Sure it is, buddy.”

The smile on Noct’s mouth curls into something sweeter. Prompto is looking at him, but Noct’s eyes are set on something beyond, something further away than the rising sun. “It _is_ my father’s cane, you know. Iggy found it for me.” Noct’s fingers stretch over the head of the cane, as if he’s still getting used to the worn material digging into his palm. “It’s just convenient, now that my back seems set on killing me.”

Prompto winces at that, but it’s more playful than anything else. The scars of that day haven’t even started to heal yet —Prompto won’t step into the throne room anymore, not for now, at least—, but it was always easy to joke around with Noct, anyway. Way before this whole thing started, even. “Too soon, Noct! Harsh…”

Noct shakes his head, but there is laughter clinging to his lips. There is a difference of a step separating them; Noct stands at the top of the stairs while Prompto stands on the step just below, the difference enough to make their natural height difference be more noticeable. Turning around completely would mean setting his mouth at the base of Noct’s throat, so he keeps his eyes forward.

The warm weight of Noct’s chest against his shoulder is just as good, though, so Prompto doesn’t feel like he’s missing on much.

“Prom…”

“If you’re going to thank me, you can save it,” Prompto says, and not for the first time. It hasn’t been long since the first break of dawn after ten years, but they’ve had this conversation enough for every roll of Prompto’s eyes to feel justified. “I mean it, Noct.”

“I wasn’t _going_ to,” Noct says, and Prompto doesn’t have to turn to hear the pout in his best friend’s voice.

The hand on his shoulder also stops him from turning. Prompto feels the weight of it first, heavy and warm through his also comfy —also borrowed—shirt. Then Prompto sees movement from the corner of his eye, going down the step. First is the cane. Then a trembling right foot. And then there comes the left one, leaving Noct to stand side by side with Prompto on the same step, as dawn washes them in soft colors and even softer lights.

When Prompto turns, Noct is already looking at him, and it is very, very hard not to lean up and kiss Noctis right there.

There is nothing stopping Prompto, really, but he knows his friend won’t like it if he interrupts him again.

So he waits.

They have all the time in the world for that kind of thing, now.

“Prom,” Noct starts again, and his eyes slide from Prompto’s features to sneak a glance at the slow rebuild of Insomnia, just to go back to the blue of Prompto’s eyes. “I’m gonna make this world a better place,” Noct keeps on, and lets his free hand hang in between them, palm up. The sweetest offer Prompto has ever received in his life. “You with me?”

There is only one possible reply to that. But Prompto can’t help himself; he leans forward, to ghost his lips over the vague stubble over Noct’s jaw, up to his cheek, to the corner of his eye. He skips his mouth entirely as he moves to kiss the jut of his chin and then up again, to the bridge of Noct’s nose. Noct’s hand turns to grip at Prompto’s shirt, the grip so tight his scrapped knuckles go white.

When Prompto speaks, he does so against Noct’s lips, so the words have no chance of going unheard, untasted, unfelt. He delivers them, with the power of the gods to back up his promise.

And all the emotion of a man in love with his best friend.

“Mm-hm,” Prompto mutters, his smile more blinding than the sun. “Ever at your side.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all liked it!! Please let me know in the comments! Or, if you rather, you can always come cry with me about ffxv either on my twitter ([@strikemika](https://twitter.com/strikemika)) or my tumblr (valerianights)


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